


Pictures of You

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Everyone Thinks They're Together, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon, Roommates, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Technology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-12-25 07:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18256574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: It starts with a well-meaning gift, and a hopeful invitation.





	1. Chapter 1

    “I got you a phone.” Crowley announces, striding into the shop and finding Aziraphale hard at not-remotely-work.

 

    Aziraphale looks up from his book, skepticism writ deep into every line of his face. “A phone? The shop does have a phone.”

 

    “Yes. This is a mobile phone.”

 

    “Oh, no. No, then people should be able to contact me outside of work hours. I already don’t like people to be able to contact me when I am open.”

 

    “The number’s not listed. No one can contact you unless you give it to them. Look, I’ve set it up. I have your number, no one else does. And I’m in there, see, in case you ever need to contact me.”

 

    “Oh.” Aziraphale relaxes, and accepts the phone. It’s sleek and white, the same shape as the black one Crowley also shows him.

 

    “I know you’re not going to use half these apps, but look-- you can text me any time. It’s got the internet on it. You’re on my data plan, which means… absolutely nothing, you don’t need to understand what a data plan is.”

 

    Aziraphale raises one eyebrow, perfectly communicating the idea that he has some vague idea of what a data plan _might_ be, and that moreover he’s very aware of the fact that it works because Crowley wants it to, not because he pays for it. Still, he doesn’t make any _argument_.

 

    Crowley is the only number listed under Aziraphale’s contacts, and next to his name there is a little emoji with horns. He sends a test text, relieved when it works out all right-- he’s not sure why he’d thought it would be difficult, he’d learned how to use his computer-- and Crowley’s phone buzzes, the screen lighting up.

 

    On Crowley’s phone, Aziraphale is simply listed as ‘Angel’. Where there’s a little smirking demon beside Crowley’s name on Aziraphale’s phone, there’s a tiny stack of books next to ‘Angel’. Aziraphale finds he rather likes that.

 

    “Where do you get those? The little pictograms?”

 

    “The emojis? Yeah, right in here.” Crowley leans over and taps his screen.

 

    The selection is dizzying. He’s sure he won’t use most of them. However…

 

    He texts Crowley a teacup and a question mark. Crowley laughs, and nods, and flips the sign in the window to CLOSED.

 

\---/-/---

 

    “What are you doing? How many people do you text?” Aziraphale asks. He hadn’t minded Crowley taking his phone out to take a picture of his sushi, but it’s a bit insulting to be communicating with other people while they’re out at lunch together. Especially as Aziraphale had had something important to say.

 

    “I don’t really text anyone else-- I’m posting my sushi to instagram.”

 

    “You’re what?”

 

    “I’m-- It’s a social media thing.”

 

    “And?” Aziraphale coughs. “You know, I understand computers better than you do, you needn’t write off everything technological to me as if I won’t understand or approve.”

 

    Privately, Crowley is not so sure that Aziraphale understands computers any better than he does, but he has to admit, Aziraphale’s dusty beige box is at least plugged into the wall. Of course, it does all the same things Crowley’s sleek black laptop is capable of, which isn’t technological savvy at all, it’s cheating. But he uses it to do his taxes and his shop inventory and things of that nature, and Crowley mostly uses his to google himself.

 

    “Social media’s not really at all like what you do with your computer, it’s… social.”

 

    “Yes, so I gathered. I am trying to show an interest, my dear, in something you seem to be interested in. Whatever ‘instagram’ is, it’s fascinating enough to draw your attention away from lunch.” He sniffs.

 

    “It’s an app you can get on your phone that lets you post pictures. You tag them so people can find them, and then people follow you to look at the pictures you post. Some people post pictures of their food, or selfies, or pets… Some people post about books, maybe you _would_ like it. You could at least follow me! I could use more followers.”

 

    Aziraphale sets himself up on Instagram, under FellBooks-- his phone has several pictures already of the books in his current collection that he cares for. He’s still in the process of selling off the valuable books he doesn’t want, and seeking the things he does. Mercifully, anything signed to him seems to have restored itself, must have been understood to be sentimental and precious, but he has so many others to find…

 

    He finds and follows Crowley, and taps the little heart to indicate that he likes the picture of his sushi-- and the caption, ‘Lunch out with a friend’, accompanied by horned and haloed emojis sitting to either side of a bento box.

 

    “Okay, promise I’m done.” Crowley sets his phone on the table, face-down, and leans in. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

    Aziraphale does the same with his own. “If you pick that up again to look at it, you’re paying the check.”

 

    “I don’t mind paying the check.”

 

    “Oh-- No, no, you can’t just volunteer to, I invited you! I invited you because it’s… well, it’s important. Or-- I thought--”

 

    “Spit it out, angel, you’ve got my undivided attention.” He promises, dropping one of the pieces of his dragon roll into his mouth.

 

    “I’ve been thinking about getting a… well, not a ‘retirement’ cottage, of course, but a place… Something away from it all. My shop would be open by appointment only, as the serious collectors’ market for these books I’ve found myself housing is really all online nowadays… I’d still have the place, I’d still spend some time in the city, but… I thought, after everything, it just might be nice. To have a quiet little retreat. Maybe a place by the seaside.”

 

    Crowley swallows his bite-- a rather larger and less-chewed bite than most people would attempt to get down.

 

    “Oh.” He says. “So… I suppose you wouldn’t be, erm, available for many lunches…”

 

    “Well, here’s where I had the thought, that… that you might also… want to get away from it all?” Aziraphale’s voice rises to a rather embarrassing pitch. But then, everything about the situation is embarrassing. Mortifying, even. He feels about ready to spontaneously discorporate from the stress of it. “I thought we could get a place together.”

 

    “Live together?”

 

    “Well… when we’re not in the city and not traveling for work, yes. But sometimes one of us will be handling the job somewhere else, and the other will have the place to himself a while… Just a little two-bedroom with a view and space for a garden and a library. Just a little-- a getaway we could… share, yes, but we wouldn’t be underfoot all the time.”

 

    “I could use a getaway.” Crowley smiles. “Yeah. We’d have our own places in town, but… a place in the country to lie low. None of the stresses of modern living-- well, not half so many, and only the ones we decide we like.”

 

    “I just thought… it might be nice to do a lot of things differently now. The world’s been given a new lease on life, and so have we. I might take a cookery class. Or take up painting. Or… oh, I don’t know. Dance again! And spend more time someplace quiet, with no customers, with-- well, like you said. Only the ones we like, doesn’t that also mean… people?”

 

    “People?”

 

    “Well, not really ‘people’, but… but you and me. It’d be just us if we liked, that’s all. No work, no bothers, a place to go when we aren’t busy being an angel and a demon.”

 

    “What are we when we’re not an angel and a demon?”

 

    “Just us, I suppose.” Aziraphale shrugs.

 

    “I like that.” Crowley nods. He flips his chopsticks around, using the serving end to offer a piece of rainbow roll from his sampler platter to Aziraphale. “Here, try this, you’ll like it.”

 

    Before the world failed to end, Aziraphale used to ask him how spicy this or that one was, or which unusual ingredient it contained, when he offered. It’s not that it wasn’t a fair question-- Crowley’s usual order at any sushi place has long been the most adventurous sampler platter available. Sometimes there were also things on it which suited Aziraphale’s tastes, other times not so much. Crowley liked variety and spice and new experiences, as a rule, and as a rule, Aziraphale liked the simple comfort of something fatty and familiar. High quality tuna, a slightly sweetish tamago, golden tofu stuffed with sticky rice… one roll that’s got mango in it, that’s new.

 

    He doesn’t ask any questions about the rainbow roll. He leans forward and gets one hand under, before taking it from Crowley’s chopsticks with his own, and he pops it into his mouth. His particular bite had been a bit of avocado and sea bass, and he likes it as much as Crowley had assumed he might.

 

    “You’ll want to save this for the end after you’ve had all your hot ones, but here.” Aziraphale moves a piece of the mango roll to the edge of Crowley’s plate.

 

    “Appreciated.” Crowley says, and he waves their waiter down to request two little cups of the plum wine. “We should toast to this house thing. Make the plan official.”

 

    Official between them, at least. That was all it ever took to cement a personal agreement-- their long association may have faltered from time to time as they learned to understand each other, but neither of them had ever taken back something they’d agreed upon with a toast. They’d put the Arrangement in writing, because that one was a bit important to have down, so that they knew they were understanding it the same way, but lots of things… lots of things they just agreed upon.

 

    “A little place we’ll keep together.” Aziraphale says, once he has his wine in hand. “Peaceful, quiet, no work, no worries… and you’re free to do anything you like with the outside, no argument from me. I suppose, technically, I don’t even need a bedroom, just a library and a view, and a nice kitchen table…”

 

    “A little place we’ll keep together.” Crowley gently touches the rim of his cup to Aziraphale’s. “Peaceful, quiet, no work, no worries… and we’ll both just do whatever we like while we’re there. And we’ll figure out how much of our things to move in and how much to leave at our separate places, it’ll work out.”

 

    They drink to it.

 

    “When I have a lead on something worth looking at,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll text you.”

 

\---/-/---

 

    Aziraphale doesn’t wind up following very many accounts on Instagram, but it seems a bit odd to only ever follow Crowley’s… he follows a couple of other bibliophiles, and a nice gentleman who works with an animal rescue and posts about cute little creatures, and he follows a couple of young men from his former-club-turned-quiet-pub, who had overheard him talking about how a friend had got him on there and he just didn’t know what he was really doing with it. He expects they might regret inviting him to follow-- he clicks like on things, yes, but he responds to every mention of going out for a fun weekend with a reminder to be safe

 

    Mostly, though, he’s on the thing for Crowley.

 

    He dutifully likes every single selfie-- most of which do not look like selfies, they look as if there must have been a photographer involved, but Aziraphale is certain that he’d simply propped his phone up somewhere and willed it to take the picture-- and comments on them with a ‘that’s very nice, dear’, and a little haloed emoji.

 

    There are a lot of selfies in fashionable, slim-cut suits, or skinny jeans and tee shirts with blazers, and Crowley’s face isn’t in most of them. He also has picture after picture of his Bentley from all angles, and one of himself gently polishing the hood in less-than-perfectly-fashionable jeans and tee shirt. Aziraphale makes sure to comment that the car is looking good. Pictures of houseplants, as well, lots of those, and pictures of coffees he’s had, and meals at nice places…

 

    And one of the ducks at St. James park, which has just gone up, when Aziraphale opens the app.

 

    ‘I hope you’re being kind to them’, he comments, with his customary angel emoji signature.

 

    Within moments, there’s a picture of a handful of popcorn being lobbed at said ducks.

 

    ‘The angel hovering over my shoulder has convinced me to be kind to the bloody ducks’, the caption reads. Frowning demon emoji, popcorn emoji, duck emoji.

 

    ‘Doesn’t that feel good?’ Aziraphale comments.

 

    ‘Join us if you’re not busy’ Crowley responds.

 

    Aziraphale does. For the first time, he adds a photo to his own which isn’t of one of his books.

 

\---/-/---

 

    The cottage they find really is perfect. A fixer-upper, but that will be no trouble at all. It has a detached garage, lots of space to put a garden in, the perfect view… it even has a ramshackle old greenhouse coming off one side.

 

    And inside… coming off of the cozy little living room, a _library_. It’s ringed with built-in shelves, has a fireplace, a door out onto a little screened-in veranda. The sort of place you could put a wicker chaise and a glass-topped table, and take your book and your cup of tea out to on a summer morning. Sea breezes but no nasty little insects.

 

    “Oh, Crowley, can we?” Aziraphale whispers, taking his arm. The built-ins have him feeling a bit weak in the knees.

 

    “You have to ask? Did you see the greenhouse?” Crowley rocks back on his heels. “Repairs won’t be a problem-- I’ll start out there and you’ll start in here and the place ought to be livable by winter.”

 

    Long before winter, if they do it their way, but they can’t say as much where the realtor can hear. Winter’s a reasonable goal.

 

    “Oh, just think-- a proper place to come home to when you’re not traveling for work. One that feels really homey! Your flat’s hardly that.”

 

    “Yeah, well, I don’t really live in my flat, do I?” Crowley snorts. “Come on, angel, we should at least count the bedrooms before we make an offer.”

 

    “Oh, we don’t really need a second bedroom if there isn’t one.” He shakes his head. He really doesn’t need one, he’ll have the library, and he doesn’t sleep. If it took his fancy to try it, he’d have a nice piece of furniture to nap on there and that would suit him fine.

 

    “Well let’s look. Let’s look, at least.”

 

    “All right.” He agrees, and keeps hold of Crowley’s arm as they head upstairs. He could definitely make something of the master suite for Crowley to use, Crowley does like sleep… and there is a second bedroom, it’s small but it has good light, and it even has a closet.

 

    They put in the offer, and neither brings up the question of whether they had meddled in the matter of its being accepted.

 

    Crowley focuses on fixing up the greenhouse, repairing it not with a single breezy thought but with hours of concentration, sculpting it into something far grander than it had once been, and then carefully moving his plants in bit by bit.

 

    Aziraphale focuses on the house itself. Once the actual issues are seen to, he does the walls-- porcelain paint throughout, a couple of rooms papered in William Morris, a feature wall of billiard green in Crowley’s bedroom and blue sky all around for his own. His library cozy in deepest mauve, between all the built-ins.

 

    He leaves art to Crowley’s discretion, Crowley’s the art collector between them. He moves in some furniture-- an armchair, an ottoman, and a chaise for his library, a wicker set for his little veranda. A bedroom set for his bedroom, just because there ought to be one, and he might read in there. He makes sure the kitchen is all right.

 

    He moves in a couple of things for Crowley, while Crowley is focused on setting up the plants-- a plush rug for the master bath, black and white and modern-looking, and a load of white towels.

 

    A little of his fixing-up of the bathroom had been excessive, but he thinks Crowley will appreciate it, lazy, heat-seeking hedonist that he is. The beautiful stone walk-in shower with all the fiddly settings he’d researched, and a little sauna. Just in case he needed it…

 

    With the greenhouse done, Crowley takes over the living and dining rooms, finishes up furnishing the kitchen, handles the rest of the master suite. He puts some art in Aziraphale’s library, where there’s room over the mantle for something to hang, and a bit of space to put a statue.

 

    Crowley’s Instagram account covers the greenhouse, mostly, which is how Aziraphale keeps up on his progress while working on the house proper-- though he does show off his handiwork in the cottage when he gets there, and Aziraphale is always quick to comment approvingly on the furniture he’s put in or the placement of the art.

 

    Crowley posts a picture of a big copper bathtub surrounded by leafy trees, right there in the greenhouse.

 

    ‘Decadent!’ Aziraphale comments from his bookshop.

 

    Aziraphale posts pictures of those books chosen to make the journey to the cottage, as they’re removed from shelves and wrapped and packed for transit.

 

    ‘You sure you’ll have room for everything?’ Crowley teases from the greenhouse.

 

    They’re rarely in the same place at the same time during the mad rush that is readying the place, taking turns as they do doing both their jobs, or packing at home vs fixing up the cottage, but Aziraphale has to admit that the phone is very welcome now. It lets them keep tabs on each other’s progress, lets them communicate easily. And when they are both at the cottage, there are tea breaks-- not that their work is very strenuous, but it’s nice to chat about the progress and pore over the pictures side by side… It’s nice to have that time in person, even with the ease of long-distance communication.

 

    ‘Bookshop now by appointment only!’, Aziraphale captions a picture of his old sign listing hours he did not quite keep, now sitting in an otherwise empty wastebasket.

 

    ‘Going to have to find a good place for coffee near Seaford’, Crowley captions one of his coffee pictures.

 

    ‘I shall miss trivia night here!’, Aziraphale captions a picture of the sign of his precious little club-turned-pub. Of course he could visit any time he was in the city for other business, but still… it wouldn’t always be on trivia night! He didn’t play, it wouldn’t be fair, but he liked cheering everyone on.

 

    ‘Trading rooftops in for sea views soon…’, Crowley captions the view from his bedroom window.

 

    ‘Moving day approaches!’, Aziraphale captions a picture of all his luggage and his boxes.

 

    ‘Moving day approaches!’, Crowley captions a much sleeker and cleaner picture of his own. Crowley’s luggage all matched, for starters.

 

    And then, they have their little place, and everything’s fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The settling-in process goes mostly very well.
> 
> Mostly.

    “Aziraphale.” Crowley says, his tone implying he’s said his name at least five times already, now with finger-snapping.

 

    Aziraphale sets his book down in his lap. “Yes, my dear?”

 

    “Have you given any thought to dinner?”

 

    “None at all.” He admits. He hadn’t particularly planned on eating, unless Crowley tempted him into something. He’s rather accustomed to not bothering with regular meals when he’s home, but then… he’s used to being home alone. He goes out to eat, he makes an occasion of it, he meets Crowley for it, he often doesn’t get around to it otherwise, not in a three squares sense.

 

    In the week since moving into their place, though, he’s indulged a little more regularly, he blames Crowley’s beautiful glass-fronted refrigerator for that. It had been immediately stocked with all manner of delights, gourmet fancies from back in London, things from all of their favorite places-- leftovers and takeaway meals attractively boxed up, fruit from someplace that prided itself on being organic (which they’d both taken credit for), the finest Crowley’s preferred butcher and cheesemonger had to offer, a variety of little sweet things… passing by that gleaming display, he could hardly be faulted for liberating a bit of sushi here, a pastry there.

 

    Crowley eats every day, he’s learned, or at least every day he’s home, but he does it as Aziraphale has begun to do, browsing now and then for a single bite, and sometimes taking no more than that per day.

 

    For both of them, eating out is something of an event, a reason to have a meal when it’s so easy not to. A reason to enjoy it. And something they haven’t done in their new home. They’ve been settling in.

 

    “Shall we see if there’s someplace decent in town?” Crowley offers.

 

    “I would like that.” Aziraphale smiles, and reaches for his bookmark. “I’ll dress properly.”

 

    “You’re never dressed _improperly_.” Crowley spreads his arms, and likely rolls his eyes behind his shades, but Aziraphale pays him no mind. It’s an _event_ , after all, their first excursion to dine out in their new home.

 

    He selects a cream-colored suit, a white shirt. After a moment’s consideration, he puts the waistcoat from his suit back in the wardrobe. It’s barely beginning to be autumnal, and they’re not likely to be finding something very fancy. He looks through his things a moment and goes to the door.

 

    “Crowley!” He calls. “Crowley, which sleeveless jumper? The fair isle or the camel-navy argyle? To go with the cream tweed!”

 

    “The cream tweed’s got a waistcoat, doesn’t it? I remember, I like the cream tweed. Why don’t you wear that?” Crowley shouts back up, from what sounds like the vicinity of the living room.

 

    “It seems like it might be chilly out! Do you have an opinion on my sleeveless jumpers or not?”

 

    “My opinion is that they’re all hideous! What about the, er-- What about that cable knit one, do you still have that?”

 

    “Well it’s not chilly enough for that one, I’m looking just at my lightweight ones!”

 

    After a moment of silence, Crowley comes stamping up the stairs-- he heaves an audible sigh once he’s in range, and slides past Aziraphale and into his room, so that he can hold each up to him, and the jacket as well, considering.

 

    “What tie? I expect you won’t go out without a tie.”

 

    “Well, with the fair isle, I’d be wearing the bow tie in some of the same colors, and with the argyle I think the navy ascot with the white dots? And then either the leather cufflinks or the brass button ones.”

 

    “Oh, _someone_ save me from your taste in ties, have you not got something better than that? No.” Crowley holds up the bow tie in question. “Hideous. You will not wear a beautiful, impeccably tailored modern suit and ruin it with this… monstrosity. An ascot… well, maybe you can pull it off as an eccentric fashion thing, but I think you’re better off without, with this.”

 

    “I would feel naked without it.” He insists, but he dons the ascot and all associated, the camel-and-navy argyle, the brass button cufflinks.

 

    Crowley has already posted his outfit of the day, and so Aziraphale doesn’t expect he shall change. But then, he looks good as he is. The very slim-fitting black denims with all the seaming and details, and the black velvet blazer, over the softest lightweight sweater, candy apple red, one that lays so close to his body Aziraphale thinks a stranger may well believe he’d magicked it onto his body, just because there’s no explaining the fit any other way. The vee neck showing off sharp collarbones.

 

    He hadn’t been wearing the blazer around the house most of the day, but he’d put it back on while Aziraphale was dressing, evidently. One button done. It was, Aziraphale supposes, very stylish. He’d left his customary compliment on the picture earlier.

 

    Downstairs, at the front door, Aziraphale gets his coat and hat, though he decides it’s not quite scarf weather, and Crowley manifests a scarf for himself, evidently deciding it is not coat-and-hat weather. The scarf is white, and he drapes it more for effect than warmth. No doubt he wants to evoke aviators and fighter pilots, but against the velvet blazer, it puts Aziraphale more in mind of nights at the opera.

 

    “You look very dashing, my dear.” He says, and Crowley stands a little straighter.

 

    “You think?”

 

    “Oh, yes.”

 

    Crowley opens the door for him.

 

    “Erm--” He starts, and then after an awkward moment, he offers his arm without further comment. Aziraphale is happy to take it, his hand settling over the plush velvet sleeve. He strokes at it idly, as they stroll from the cottage door to the detached garage and the waiting Bentley.

 

    “You look nice.” Crowley says, as he points the car towards the nearby town. “I mean-- I know I make fun about all your outdated things, and argyle’s not much better than tartan, but the colors are nice on you, and-- and it’s a nice suit. I mean, I don’t want you to think I hate everything you wear, or… When you’re always nice about mine.”

 

    “Yes, believe it or not, I can tell when you’re only teasing.” Aziraphale smiles. He reaches over to pat Crowley’s arm, just once despite the temptation to linger on that velvet again. “But thank you.”

 

    The drive is short, and quiet, and for once, slow. It’s very pleasant.

 

    There are chip shops that attract hungry tourists, and cafes with tables on the sidewalk, there are places for pub fare and one rather uninspired looking Italian restaurant, and no sushi in evidence, but then, it’s sometimes hard to meet the standards of two very well-traveled beings. They choose a cafe, and take a table indoors, by the window. It may not be the Ritz, but Aziraphale likes the food just fine. Crowley has already posted his meal-- captioned ‘trying the local fare (demon emoji, wine glass emoji, wine glass emoji, angel emoji)’.

 

    “You know, if we go the other way there’s another village. We might try there next time we go out.”

 

    “We might. But I’m happy to come back here.”

 

    “All right, then. Well we can try out the others, too, but… if this is Our Place now, that’s fine.” Crowley smiles down at his plate. He offers Aziraphale a bite. “Anyway, we’ll still pop back to London now and again. Sushi or lunch at the Ritz, then a drink and a bite come evening back at your old club.”

 

    “Yes-- I’ll have to go back this week. I don’t need to open the shop, but I’ve got to ship one of those first edition children’s books to an online buyer. If you don’t mind driving me, I’ll treat you to lunch-- it sold for a pretty penny, might be nice to celebrate.”

 

    “I can take you up tomorrow. Drop you at your shop, run by my flat or… dunno, do a quick temptation. After you’ve posted your parcel, we might reconvene at the park before lunch?”

 

    “That sounds lovely.”

 

    The rest of dinner passes pleasantly. Outside the cafe, as they’re leaving, Crowley shivers and wraps his scarf around himself in a more-than-decorative way.

 

    Aziraphale shrugs out of his coat with a long-suffering sigh and drapes it over his companion’s shoulders.

 

    “Didn’t I say it would be chilly?” He tuts. “Well let’s get you home and warm, then.”

 

    “Thanks, angel.”

 

    The drive home is as slow and quiet and pleasant as the drive out had been. Once they’re safely past their front door, Crowley returns the coat sheepishly.

 

    “Come join me for a little after-dinner drink?” He invites. “The greenhouse?”

 

    “All right. Sounds like a fine way to pass the night.”Aziraphale smiles. “I’ll meet you out there in a moment.”

 

    He trades his shoes for a pair of very timeworn velvet slippers, and hangs his jacket up, and on his way out to the greenhouse, he pauses in the kitchen and finds the little presentation box of macarons in the fridge. Where Crowley had picked them up, he’s not certain, but he has his suspicions, and if they’re very special, then it stands to reason they ought to enjoy them on a night when they’re enjoying each other’s company and sharing a nice drink and looking forward to plans…

 

    The original greenhouse now forms the mere antechamber to the grand Victorian luxury Crowley had never wound up giving himself before. He’s bought new plants to fill it out, and it’s a verdant little paradise. There to one side, Aziraphale sees the cluster of palm leaves which he knows hides a bathtub. Against another side, covered in little pots of vines and flowers, a charmingly battered player piano. Trellises of climbing plants here and there. Almost everything just green, green, green. A cluster of furniture in the center, near the spiraling staircase-- more plants drip down from the mezzanine, and a basket chair hangs down from above near the potted bird of paradise bushes and an old victrola. But there in the center, if you look up, there’s nothing to block the view of the stars. There’s an old overstuffed leather armchair and a patchwork pouf, and a beautiful little glass-topped octagonal table, the same green as the greenhouse’s wrought iron framework-- and at the table stands Crowley, pouring two glasses of port. And there, just below the moon above, a green velvet chaise longue, macrame fringe around the bottom, a matching pillow and a soft cream knit throw blanket…

 

    It’s not very Crowley. It isn’t sleek, isn’t black and white, isn’t leather. It shows its age, is cozy and squashy and soft and un-chic. It’s Aziraphale, is what it is.

 

    “Is this my seat?”

 

    “If you like.” Crowley hands him a glass. Aziraphale takes it, setting the box of macarons on the table and making himself comfortable. “Dessert, is it?”

 

    “If you like.” He smiles, and selects the vanilla from the assortment.

   

    Crowley takes what he suspects is coffee but which may be chocolate, and settles into his chair.

 

    “The stars are really something.”

 

    “I confess I find it comforting just to see that they’re all where they belong, sometimes. Since everything.” Aziraphale says.

 

    “It’s such a nice view here. You tip your head back and look up, and if the night’s clear, it’s all up there… and you can see it all from a nice warm comfy seat. With a glass of wine.”

 

    “You’ve really made something beautiful of the place. It must be just as lovely during the day. I don’t know why I haven’t-- well.”

 

    “Oh, it’s…” Crowley groans. “When the sun comes in and everything heats up… and you can smell all the flowers and all the _green_ , and the world outside’s hardly real to you… Look, if there’s some cosmic reward for saving the earth, if we were really meant to do it, then this is mine. It’s the garden again.”

 

    “It’s lovely.” He says again. He knows why he hasn’t spent any time out in it. It’s Crowley’s space, the way the library is his own, more meaningful than the bedrooms. Crowley feels nothing about walking into his, since he doesn’t sleep there, and while Aziraphale is considerate of Crowley’s habit of actually using his bed, he doesn’t think anything of moving through the bedroom to get to the master bath, should he desire use of the complicated shower or the little sauna. But Crowley knocks at the doorway of the library and doesn’t enter without permission, and Aziraphale had waited for a real invitation before coming out to the greenhouse.

 

    “You ought to come spend some time out here if you like. You could… you could bring a book out. Since there’s a seat for you.”

 

    “I’d like that. Erm-- You know… if I ever had a fire going in the library, once the weather turns, there’s a chair there you could… There’s an extra chair near the hearth. I know you could build one in the living room, but you may as well come and join me, if you were in the mood.”

 

    “Maybe. I’m not-- I’m not keen on a fire.”

 

    “No? You like to keep warm.”

 

    “Yeah, but… I’ve got that sauna, for any time the greenhouse isn’t enough for me. Fire in the library’s not…” He shrugs.

 

    “Oh.” Aziraphale frowns softly, turning towards him. “Well I don’t have to light a fire. But you might come in anyway if you liked. If you felt the rest of the house was a bit empty and wanted the company. We might just have a hot cup of something. You’d be very welcome.”

 

    Crowley nods. “I might, then, for a hot cup of something.”

 

    “I’d like that. If you did. Now and then, at least. I-- well, it occurs to me, I-- I don’t want you to think I want you kept out all the time. I know if I ever need my space, you’ll give it to me. But you’re welcome to come and join me any time you like and I’ll let you know if I need some quiet. I-- I like your company, though. And-- And I wouldn’t mind you hanging about when I need quiet if you felt like being quiet. I mean… if you wanted to nap somewhere where I was reading, well… wouldn’t that be fine?”

 

    “And if you want to come out and read where I’m napping.”

 

    They share a tentative smile. After a moment, they both stretch out an arm, to let their glasses clink gently together.

 

    After a little while stargazing, Aziraphale tosses the afghan over to Crowley. He stays a couple hours more, until well after the whole bottle of port and all the macarons are consumed, through the sharing of idle memories and thoughts and cozy silences.

 

    Crowley walks him back to the house, where he doesn’t need to sleep, but he changes into a set of pajamas anyway, and a plush robe, before going back down to his library to read until morning.

 

    His followers on Instagram, he thinks, might well wonder when he sleeps-- throughout the night, he periodically snaps pictures of the page he’s on, when he comes across something he considers particularly moving and profound. But he doesn’t really think about the lateness of the hour until he’s done a few. Well… likely they won’t notice when, will they?

 

    In the morning, he takes his turn in the bath for an unnecessary but highly pleasant shower-- he’d designed it to be luxurious beyond any need thinking of Crowley’s comfort and pleasure, but as it turns out it’s well suited to his own-- and dresses for the day. Smartly, Crowley’s taking him back up to London for a nice time as well as business, and it feels exciting. Funny how going to the old familiar places can seem so special now that it’s an Occasion. He’s very happy to be living far from the action, but it’ll be nice also to get back to his shop now and again… eventually he’ll likely want to swap out which books he keeps where, but he’s got most of his special favorites at the cottage.

 

    Crowley meets him in the kitchen, where Aziraphale has a pot of tea nearly ready, and he stops in his tracks. The wolf whistle is an unnecessary exaggeration, but Aziraphale feels rather pleased by it nonetheless.

 

    “Oh, stop, this old thing?” He preens.

 

    “Vintage, though, very on-trend in some circles. Normally I’d scoff at the pattern, but the grey on grey is nice. Understated, for a bold check.”

 

    “I think the fit’s a bit too slim. I’m very unsure about it. It’s been in the back of my wardrobe decades now…”

 

    “No, no, it’s very good.” Crowley reaches out, adjusting the knot of his necktie, and then the matching pocket square. “There you go. Perfect.”

 

    “I’ll have your tea in just a moment.” Aziraphale says. Tea seems a much safer subject, somehow.

 

    “Ta, angel.”

 

    Crowley sets his camera up to lean against a bud vase on the kitchen island, before backing himself up to lean faux casually against the counter. The camera does his bidding and takes the picture, and if that’s how he does it, well, Aziraphale can see why his head’s always being cut off in pictures. It’s certainly an artistic choice to roll with it, he supposes, and it works when it’s just the outfit of the day.

 

    This outfit of the day is a peacock green Italian suit, quite the departure from his usual palette of blacks, reds, and charcoals. With a royal purple silk tie, with warm brown snakeskin boots and warm brown driving gloves emerging just enough from one pocket, worth ruining the line to show them off. Warm brown belt, with a very ornamental gold snake buckle, little green stone eyes to match the suit.

 

    “You know, I could take your pictures for you. I mean, the outfit ones. It’s just one a day, I don’t see why I couldn’t, when we’re both here.” He picks up his own phone-- prior to Crowley’s coming in, he’d been playing with the recent discovery that he could do crosswords on his phone now. It wasn’t the same as sitting down with a good pen, but they were still good puzzles.

 

    “Yeah? You’d-- you wouldn’t mind?”

 

    “It’s only a moment, and I can text you the picture.”

 

    “All right.” Crowley grins. “Hang on-- here!”

 

    He gestures to the sink, where the window provides some natural light, and the space between sink and window crowded with little potted herbs. He snags his not-yet-filled mug on the way, posing himself casually as if he were thinking deep thoughts while drinking tea and checking on his herbs.

 

    “Ridiculous vain creature.” Aziraphale clucks, but he takes the shot, and he keeps it on his phone after texting it to Crowley.

 

    “Thanks!” He retrieves his buzzing phone, and surrenders his mug to be filled with tea.

 

    Sugar, cream… the same as Aziraphale takes, though that’s only true of some tea blends, others Crowley prefers without, or with honey, or with lemon. He wonders just when he learned this about him. It seems he’s always known. It seems he’s known since before they’d had tea to drink, that Crowley would take his the same, some of the time.

 

    This time, watching Crowley make the post, Aziraphale gets to be the first to comment on the photo, though he’s not sure why exactly that matters. It’s not as if his reply is any different for having been the one to take the photo.

 

    Along with the usual #OOTD, he mentions heading back to London for the day. He really does look good, his profile and softly distracted look, eyes closed, lashes sweeping his cheeks… Aziraphale expects this one is going to get more of Those Sorts of comments than usual, and he supposes he could take some pride in being the photographer, but he doesn’t. It makes him uncomfortable to think on it too much. People always leave Those Sorts of comments, and Crowley often gives blanket thanks to them for being so nice, even though it isn’t always very _nice_ , Aziraphale doesn’t think.

 

    “I’d be too self-conscious to put my picture up if I thought I was going to get comments.” He says. “From strangers, I mean.”

 

    “Well that’s the point, though, is getting people to comment. I like getting a good conversation going-- ever since I got kicked off of that gardening forum, I’ve got to talk to people somewhere. I was _right_ , by the way, and if people can’t handle the truth, they shouldn’t over-water.”

 

    “Well, yes, that’s all very well for comments on your plants, but I mean… if I had a vessel like yours, I’d be nervous of the comments.”

 

    “What’s that supposed to mean, vessel like mine?” Crowley grins.

 

    “Don’t fish for compliments, you know very well you’re… youthful and attractive. And it attracts a certain sort of comment I just don’t know how you can stand.”

 

    “In case you haven’t noticed, I like compliments.” His grin grows no less smug. “It’s people on the internet, there’s… there’s nothing they’re going to _do_ about it. Even if I ran into someone who’d called me sexy online, nothing would _happen_. Anyway, you don’t need a vessel like mine to get sexy comments.” He bobs his eyebrows.

 

    “Oh, stop. People don’t follow me for sex appeal.” He shakes his head. “Which is for the best, as they won’t be getting it.”

 

    “Not going to give your followers any sugar? Not going to show off your sartorial decisions?”

 

    “Absolutely not.”

 

    “Not even in that suit?”

 

    “I don’t know what you mean. _You_ may enjoy compliments, my dear boy, but _I_ try very hard not to inspire any… overly-admiring thoughts in the minds of mortal man. Or, _Upstairs forbid_ , mortal _woman_.” He makes a face. “Sometimes you think you’ve got a lock on how to handle a problem and there’s just no telling people.”

 

    “I’m admired by many a mortal man and woman, and several people at points in between and outside of that rubric.”

 

    Aziraphale makes a rather miffed sound and turns to his tea, now cool enough to drink.

 

    “I mean, is it so disgusting just to be admired in a distant way?”

 

    “By humans, yes! I mean, they’re-- goodness, they’re all so _new_ , and so fragile, and so… It would be wrong to allow a fascination to build. And the very idea of any intimacies occurring is…” He shudders.

 

    “I mean… as in you hate the thought of intimacies, or just the human part? If another angel fancied you, you’d-- I don’t know. It’d be different.” Crowley says, and it’s somehow both a question and not. “I wouldn’t let anyone get somewhere with me, but sex is… I don’t know, I don’t think about it either way, but when I do think about it, it’s nothing, really. Nothing wonderful and nothing horrible.”

 

    “The odds of another angel fancying _me_ is a thought which does not deserve consideration. And I don’t think I would like it if one did, you remember what it’s like up there.”

 

    “Oh. Yeah. No, guess you’re right. Not, ah, not a long list of angels I’d try it on with.”

 

    Aziraphale freezes. “You’ve got a list?”

 

    “What?”

 

    “You-- you’ve got a _list_?”

 

    “No! Oh-- no, no, can you imagine? Joking! Anyway, er-- yeah, we’ve got a drive ahead of us, haven’t we? Finish your tea, angel, I’ll get the car pulled ‘round front.” Crowley swigs down his own remaining tea and leaves the mug in the sink, before hurrying off.

 

    Gabriel, probably. Aziraphale doesn’t feel particularly like finishing his tea, with that thought slithering around the back of his skull. It stands to reason-- oh, of course he’d say he hasn’t got a list, but…

 

    But it’s definitely Gabriel. Crowley’s been on earth seeing things through a human-adjacent lens so long that Aziraphale doesn’t imagine he’s interested in trying to sexually know any flaming wheels, he might not even go for a cherub now that he’s not accustomed to seeing a lot of multiple-headed beings around. Gabriel’s attractive, though, he’s objectively quite attractive, and the _taboo_ of it would attract Crowley-- not just an angel, but the most angel-y angel, the only angel Aziraphale personally knows to have gotten a bloody promotion, not that he’s still bitter about that, but he had outranked him once. Not that it matters, not that he cares, he was never comfortable with pulling rank or throwing his weight around or anything like that, nor occupied with anyone else’s rank, not particularly so.

 

    It’s not as if anything is ever going to happen, he can’t imagine Gabriel would ever, he’s not even sure Crowley would, he’d said his interest in sex was about zero, just that he wasn’t repulsed, so maybe it was just that he had a list of the least disagreeable potential partners, not a list of the most desired, but…

 

    But the very _idea_ , Gabriel! Somehow even though he hasn’t _done_ anything, Aziraphale likes him even less. He hadn’t thought it possible, but if he searches his heart, really searches, he doesn’t think he finds a shred of the residual love he feels for all beings for Gabriel.

 

    That’s probably very bad of him. True, no one loves their manager to any excessive degree, but as an angel, he ought to love every last member of the Host. Would anyone be able to tell that he didn’t love Gabriel at all? Not even a tiny bit? Maybe they would chalk it up to… to recent happenings straining things between Aziraphale and Heaven, but he hopes they don’t notice. He is still an angel, after all…

 

    He’s being ridiculous, he knows he is. He grabs his coat and goes to meet Crowley at the end of the drive and he tells himself he’s being ridiculous. Crowley’s given him no reason to believe he’s ever had a passing crush on Gabriel, or a-- a willingness to engage in sexual activity with him.

 

    He ought to just _ask_ Crowley if Gabriel is on his list, and then Crowley will laugh and make faces and say no, of course not, imagine anyone with taste wanting to fuck Gabriel, and everything will be fine.

 

    Except the idea of Crowley failing to meet his eyes, saying nothing, or even saying yes… he doesn’t think he could handle that.

 

    The drive up to London is unbearable-- in part because Crowley goes like hell on wheels-- so to speak-- and in part because Aziraphale can’t banish the idea… even just imagining Crowley and Gabriel in conversation fills him with something hot and uncomfortable, and it’s not as if they’d even have anything to talk about, it’s not that he thinks Gabriel would want to, even-- he can think of no reason why Gabriel would ever feel moved to, say, touch Crowley’s face, and yet he pictures it in his mind’s eye and it sickens him.

 

    It would spoil things. It would spoil the nice tidy life they have on earth, for Crowley to bring in Gabriel. To bring in any other angel, none of whom like Aziraphale very much anyway. He wouldn’t bring other demons home! Well, there’s really no reason why he ever would, but well he can imagine that if he _did_ , Crowley would be rightly put out with him.

 

    “Here we are.” Crowley announces jauntily, only to stop and stare at Aziraphale. “Er… too fast?”

 

    “It’s not Gabriel, is it?” Aziraphale blurts out, quite against his wishes.

 

    “Where?” He whips around, looking out the windows and checking the rear and side view mirrors.

 

    “No-- I mean-- you said there… there weren’t very many, your list, you-- I just-- Well it isn’t, is it?”

 

    “Do I want to sleep with _Gabriel_?” Crowley stares at him as if he’s grown an extra head or three, which under the circumstances, Aziraphale finds reassuring.

 

    “He’s just so annoying…”

 

    “I don’t have a bloody death wish, angel. Next you’ll be asking me if I want to hop in the sack with _Michael_. Can you imagine? Me and _Gabriel_?”

 

    He could, that’s the problem, but it’s a relief to know it’s not the case. “Sorry.”

 

    “I don’t really-- it was a stupid joke, I don’t know why I said it. I didn’t think you’d be analyzing it to death, thought you knew when I was only teasing.”

 

    “I-- I don’t know why I reacted that way.” Aziraphale shakes his head.

 

    “It’s fine. Now I hope you can get on with your errands in peace?”

 

    “Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, for the lift. I’ll see you later.”

 

    “Usual spot?”

 

    “Usual spot.” He nods, and exits the Bentley.

 

    Silly of him to worry, of _course_ Crowley hadn’t wanted Gabriel, he’d good as said he didn’t want sex at all. If there was any kernel of truth to the joke, it was that an angel would be less objectionable than a human, and perhaps less objectionable than another demon.

 

    Aziraphale supposes… he supposes if he had to pick someone, he would pick Crowley, unless it would make things terribly awkward between them afterwards. If he had to have the experience, he just doesn’t trust anyone else the way he does Crowley. He doesn’t like anyone half as much, either. He could, if he had to, make a list of the least objectionable sexual partners. It would be a very short list.

 

    Gabriel would not be on it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the city...

    Aziraphale gets just a little carried away, being back in his shop… surrounded by the rest of his books, and the familiar smell of the place… His library at home is very cozy and he’s happier in it than he ever dreamt he might be, but it doesn’t have the same _smell_. Out of consideration, he’s tried to keep it free of too much dust, lest said dust get about the rest of the house.

 

    When he reaches their bench at last, though, it’s certainly not late for lunch, and Crowley doesn’t seem to have been waiting long. He’s sitting there with a small box in his hands, and presumably staring at the ducks.

 

    “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, my dear.”

 

    “No, not at all.” Crowley shoves the box into his pocket, though it simply disappears to wherever it is he wants it to be, judging by the lack of any bulk to the clean line of his suit when he stands. “Did some wandering. Temptations, that sort of thing. Enjoyed the atmosphere.”

 

    “Well.” Aziraphale smiles and nods and considers offering his arm, and does not do that.

 

    Nor does Crowley, though for a moment he seems as if he might well do, only to straighten himself out a bit and not.

 

    “Shall we?” He gestures down the path instead.

 

    They wind up at the Ritz, and after that, they consider the British Museum, though they only swing through out of nostalgia, before heading onto the Tate to actually look at art they haven’t seen enough of over the past eleven years.

 

    Crowley rather impishly insists upon taking selfies in front of the things he’d posed for once upon a time-- Aziraphale is rather surprised to find there are a few in the Tate alone, though some are on loan from other museums.

 

    “You can’t do that.” He hisses.

 

    “Oh-- no, I can! It’s a whole thing. Lots of people do it, they find pictures in museums that look like them and it’s a whole thing.”

 

    “But these are…” Aziraphale looks meaningfully at the canvas behind him.

 

    “I’ve retained my figure pretty well over the centuries, haven’t I?” Crowley grins, smoothing down the front of his suit and openly admiring himself.

 

    It is a beautiful painting, of course. It’s not the loveliest he’d ever posed for, but Aziraphale’s favorite, the Moreau, Crowley really isn’t recognizable in, and Aziraphale mostly tries not to think about the fact that it is his favorite, that he has a favorite, and that having a favorite, it should be one of Crowley… of Crowley barely draped to allow for modesty, the lines of him softened somewhat, Crowley in the guise of a _saint_ , the utter blasphemy, bathed in holy light, an angel hovering at his shoulder, resplendent…

 

    Moreau hadn’t captured the thick ripple of visible muscle which Aziraphale knows is the same no matter the vessel, and he hadn’t painted Crowley’s hair, he’d just painted the hair he wanted. But he’d still produced a beautiful picture.

 

    Crowley has a reproduction hanging in the bath, vain beast that he is. It greets Aziraphale whenever he’s undressing for the shower-- though at least his head is modestly turned and it doesn’t feel like being watched. If it felt like being watched by Crowley every time he wanted a shower, he’d have to start using the other bath, and the other bath had an ordinary shower, so there was really no point at all.

 

    They wander through the gift shop, eventually-- Crowley picks up a mug marked ‘OPENING HOURS’, with ‘CLOSED’ next to each day.

 

    “Your shop.” He chuckles.

 

    “It is now.” Aziraphale grins.

 

    Crowley doesn’t set the mug down. Aziraphale picks up a postcard book featuring reproductions of one of the artists Crowley had liked, holding it carefully between both hands as if afraid something might somehow… break. Not the mug or the postcard book, but something.

 

    They reach the register, and Crowley looks at him again, and looks at the postcard book, and nearly opens his mouth to speak… and doesn’t. He glances at the mug and them back to Aziraphale, and he smiles. Aziraphale smiles back.

 

    “I’ll get the car, shall I? And… sushi, then your club?”

 

    “Sounds _divine_.” Aziraphale beams, patting his arm and letting him go, moving up to the register to pay.

 

    They still refer to it as his club, even though it hasn’t been that for… oh, verging on seventy years. Just a nice, quiet, very gay pub. Still, when they walk through the door after sushi, everyone’s glad to see him.

 

    “Mister Fell, and here we thought we’d lost you.” The young man behind the bar says, with a tiny smile, and a couple of young ladies hurry up to give him hugs.

 

    “Have you found a new place to get all your manicures?” One asks.

 

    “Not at all. I’ll have to schedule with you when I’m back here, I’m certain I won’t find anyone I like half so much.” He promises. “My dear, you’ve changed your hair-- oh, it’s very fetching.”

 

    He chats briefly with everyone, while Crowley lounges against the bar, mostly patiently. It’s strange, watching people flock to Aziraphale… the angel doesn’t exactly endear himself to most people. Not everyone finds him off-putting, but most people find him a bit weird, they don’t know what to make of him. But here, even though there’s no way any of these people understand that Aziraphale has been what’s kept the place open and _safe_ , they like him. They like him because he’s bookish and odd and paternal and polite and very, very, _very_ gay.

 

    Well, he comes off that way. He’s not straight, at any rate, which is what Crowley suspects is really important. He idly goes over the drinks list and selects a couple of cocktails while everyone keeps Aziraphale busy.

 

    It’s nice, of course it’s nice. He likes seeing Aziraphale in his element with people. He just also likes being the center of the angel’s attention. It’s the nice thing about the cottage-- he doesn’t have to wait until they’re set to meet, doesn’t have to hope for a couple hours a week, he sees Aziraphale every day now, and while they sometimes repair to their own spaces to do their own things, Aziraphale is still _close_. It’s enough sometimes to know he’s close.

 

    “Got you a cocktail.” He says, when Aziraphale finally rejoins him.

 

    “Oh-- normally, I just-- what is it?”

 

    “Gin, apricot brandy, and Calvados.” Crowley hands it over, with an easy, charming grin.

 

    “It’s called an angel face.” Adds the bartender, setting another drink down in front of Crowley.

 

    He lifts it in a toast. “I’m having an orgasm.”

 

    “Pardon?”

 

    He dips the skewered cherries into the drink, before holding the garnish out to Aziraphale. “You want a taste?”

 

    Aziraphale accepts. He’s never not accepted when Crowley has offered him a taste of something, ultimately-- not for a couple of thousand years, at least. He might ask what it is or what it’s like, but he accepts, and he accepts this. His tongue first delicately catches droplets before they can fall, before he slides the cherries into his mouth and off of the skewer.

 

    “I think I’m tasting more cherry than I am drink, but it’s very nice.”

 

    “You can have a proper taste if you want one.”

 

    “Thank you, but-- perhaps I’ll try one later.” He demurs. “Did you want to taste the angel face, though?”

 

    “Oh, you’re lucky I’m nice.” Crowley laughs, doubling over against the bar.

 

    “You’re nice now?”

 

    “Nice enough to spare you some indignity, angel.”

 

    Aziraphale reviews his previous offer, blushing faintly. “Right, yes, well. I’m sure I don’t need my face licked, thank you.”

 

    “Can I, though?” He nods to the glass in Aziraphale’s hand. “The drink, not the face, I mean. Come on, a taste for a taste, you try mine and I’ll try yours. If you like it, I’ll get you one of your own next.”

 

    He waves his own enticingly, and Aziraphale briefly trades him. He takes one very dainty sip of Crowley’s drink, and watches as Crowley merely laps at the surface of his when no one else is looking.

 

    “Really, my dear.” He murmurs, and Crowley flashes him a grin and trades back. “Shall we?”

 

    Crowley takes his arm, for just the short walk to Aziraphale’s usual table. It’s the sort of thing you _do_ when your oldest friend says ‘shall we’ in that tone, when you’ve spent thousands of years offering and taking arms in marketplaces, on high streets. It was to blend in at first, when they were not quite prepared to say they had a friendship, and then it had been comfortable. Anyway, in here it doesn’t raise any eyebrows. People know Aziraphale-- as well as any human might. They know he doesn’t date or have sex or anything, he’s just sort of… well, _him_. The type who’d offer his arm because he’s old fashioned and he’s like that.

 

    Their wine arrives shortly after they’ve finished their cocktails, placed unobtrusively at table as the two of them are deep in a discussion of the paintings they’d most admired that day-- a discussion which spirals out in a million different directions as they’re reminded of other times and places, other artists. It feels _good_ , though-- it feels good every time they find themselves realizing all over again that the world is all in one piece, the war averted, and the two of them seem free to do _this_. To laugh and drink and talk about everything and nothing, to live in a little world where the two of them matter just a little more than anything else, where the two of them are just a little more real to each other. For so _many_ years, they’d had to hide their association, had to pretend they weren’t even _friends_ , and now…

 

    Now, it seems no one really cares what they do. True, things had relaxed over time, they’d never had the Arrangement prodded at as long as they could report in to say that things got done, but… it would have been different if they’d spoken openly to their superiors about it. Part of the Arrangement was that they bolstered each other’s standing not only by covering for each other’s deeds now and then, but by talking the other up as a particularly cunning enemy and waiting for word to filter from one side to the other, as word had a way of doing. If they had said they were _friends_ , they’d have been separated.

 

    Now they have a cottage together, and they’re both happy… in a new, frightening, exhilarating, secure, fragile, deep-seated, contented, contradictory, confused, _human_ way, they’re happier than either of them thinks they ever have been before, and part of the reason why is that they’re embarking upon life in this un-ended world together. Hand in hand, as they would have faced the end of it.

 

    When their third bottle of wine arrives, so too does a generously portioned dessert, swimming in custard.

 

    “On the house, Mr. Fell.” The young man from behind the bar insists, with a very slight smirk and a perhaps put-on note of pride. “For three hundred years, men have been coming to this location to have spotted dick.”

 

    He stresses the words very ambiguously, and Crowley is a little surprised at the fact that Aziraphale _laughs_ at the little double entendre. It’s the same sort of laugh he often gives Crowley, when he can’t help but enjoy some awful thing he’s said but can’t quite say that he approves, and he feels a flash of jealousy at that. His is the only ribaldry that’s supposed to get the tacit approval of one of Aziraphale’s ‘oh you will have your fun’ chuckles!

 

    “And I have been one of them, dear.” Aziraphale says, with a playful smile and a little shake of the head.

 

    He doesn’t say ‘for three hundred years’, but Crowley does recall his raving about the dessert back in 1720 or so and dragging him along as a special guest. He’d assumed then that Aziraphale had no idea the nature of the place, and quickly learned that Aziraphale was very aware, and that he’d placed his protection on the club for just that reason. Just one of those little surprises over the eons…

 

    “Very friendly of him.” Crowley says, in the most even tone he can manage.

 

    “Isn’t it? Well, of course, I suppose I have known him a long time now, you know he tried to buy his first drink here when he was fifteen, and I gave him a lecture about safety and bought him a soft drink.”

 

    Of course. He’d imprinted on him, then. How long ago had it been? Long enough, anyway, if not so long that he had questions about why Aziraphale never seemed to age at all. Probably had one of those puppy crushes on him that never quite faded… Well, it’s not fair to blame him. A literal angel steps up and takes you under his wing and you develop some lingering feelings, that’s just how it is.

 

    He takes a picture to post to Instagram, captioning it with ‘Pros of drinks out with (angel emoji): Free dessert. Cons of drinks out with (angel emoji): Unexpected dessert after stuffing myself with sushi. RIP me’.

 

    “I follow him, too.” Aziraphale says, as if it’s some meaningless bit of nothing information. “Here, have a bite.”

 

    “You follow him on Instagram?”

 

    “Yes. I follow a few people here, so I can be in the loop with all the events and how everyone’s doing. He posts a lot about special nights, you know, the trivia and the karaoke and such. And you know, pictures of his dog. Gym selfies.”

 

    “Do you say nice things about his gym selfies? What sort of gym selfies?” Crowley demands, looking critically over at the young man, once more behind the bar. He doesn’t look particularly fit, but you never could tell when a man was wearing a bloody… sleeveless jumper, he really had imprinted on Aziraphale.

 

    “He goes to a boxing gym. I say encouraging things about his working to stay in shape and be active. You know it’s very hard sometimes to have a healthy array of hobbies, it’s good for him.”

 

    “ _Him_? He looks like he’d get creamed!”

 

    “Well he only boxes within his own weight class, dear, they don’t throw him up against some big bruiser. There’s all sorts of safety considerations nowadays. He goes with his husband twice a week.”

 

    “Husband.” Crowley feels a sense of great relief, even though at no point would he ever have considered Aziraphale capable of… of doing anything, or encouraging anything on purpose even. “He’s got a husband? That’s nice.”

 

    “Married at twenty-three, they had a little reception here, it was very sweet. They just went on holiday this last weekend, there were pictures up and everything.”

 

    “That’s nice.” Crowley repeats, and he finally accepts the bite Aziraphale had been trying to feed him for several moments.

 

    “Isn’t it?” Aziraphale sighs dreamily. “One always does like to see true love work out… it gives you hope.”

 

    “Mm-- does it?”

 

    “Well, I suppose. I mean… what’s it all for? What is everyone put in this world to do, if not to love each other? Of course it needn’t be romantic, but it’s still precious to see it when it’s real and lasting. When you can look at two people and get a sense that they’re it for each other. That they’ll die together. I know that sounds morbid, but you know what I mean. I just--”

 

    “You’re tuned into it.” Crowley takes the fork, presenting Aziraphale with a bite in return. He moans around it, and Crowley tries to tell himself he was prepared for this.

 

    “You could say that. My empathy extends to a great many emotions, but I… I prefer love, when it’s there to be found. Ever since the world began, it’s been one of the strongest driving emotions in people, and I think that’s beautiful.”

 

    “Yes, well… you would.” Crowley rolls his eyes.

 

    “And I suppose you don’t know anything about it?” Aziraphale says, only this time… Only this time, the tone is so different from when he’d always implied Crowley couldn’t understand love. This time, it’s very clear he knows Crowley does.

 

    “Not me. Pure evil, me. Wouldn’t know love if it bit me.”

 

    “Open up.” Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley hadn’t even noticed him taking the fork back again.

   

    He accepts the bite without a thought.

 

    “Thank you.” Aziraphale adds, his voice soft, his hand resting on Crowley’s forearm. “For so loving the world. For… for reminding me that I could never have been happy if-- We’d have won the war, I do believe that. And it’s not Elgar or the Sound of Music that would have made me miserable when we did.”

 

    “You’d be missing sushi.” Crowley nods, voice tight even as he attempts ‘carefree’. He readies another bite for Aziraphale. “And spotted dick.”

 

    “I’d be missing sushi.” He smiles. “I’d be missing going _out_ for sushi. I’d be missing the park and the museum, and wine and dessert… and a hundred little things. A thousand little things. My first snuff box. The others as well, but… the first one.”

 

    “Sure.”

 

    They’d been together in the shop when he’d seen it, and told himself he wasn’t there to like useless little pretty things. He didn’t care for snuff, the last thing he needed was a box for it. It was fashioned in the shape of a snail’s shell, filigreed all over, excessively decorative. Crowley had picked it up on the spot. He’d given it to him later, when they were paused on their walk. Aziraphale had bought him a stick pin, a little snake coiled around an opal egg, jaws wide.

 

    It wasn’t the first time they’d picked up little things for each other, but it had never been anything extravagant before. Normally it was a piece of fruit or a little bag of some confection-- bottles of wine they normally bought to share. That had been the first time it had been luxuries like that. Once it had been a scarf and a pair of gloves, but normally it was very little. Nothing more fancy than a mug and a postcard book from a museum gift shop, for example.

 

    It’s never been to mark more of an occasion than a pleasant time out together. It’s never really surprises-- though at times Aziraphale has been unsure, has bought something he thought Crowley would like only to wait to be certain that the thing he’d seen Crowley pick up was for him after all.

 

    Only once, Crowley had come to the shop with a second snuff box-- well, at that point it had been Aziraphale’s fifth, he’d really taken to collecting them, but the second from him, the one with the little angelic figure etched on the lid-- and so Aziraphale had pulled a book of poetry from the shelf to exchange. But that time, the snuff box had fallen into Crowley’s possession, he’d said, and he’d thought of him. It wasn’t that he’d planned to surprise him with a gift. And Aziraphale had had two copies of the book… it could have been fate.

 

    “There are things we can only have here.” Aziraphale says, and squeezes his arm, firm but gentle. He is for a moment almost too-fervent, for a moment uncaring as to whether they’re overheard. “It’s the only place where we can be us, how we are at home, how we-- Neither of us would be happy to have to go back to a life without… But I’d have gone on being afraid to act, if it wasn’t for you.”

 

    “And I’d have been, without you. Come on, angel, no emotional scenes over dessert, get some custard in you, you’ll feel better.”

 

    Aziraphale leans in obediently to be fed, and Crowley tries to get an extra bite into him each time he has the fork, but Aziraphale is so concerned with fairness-- even with how much he would not-so-secretly love to glut himself on the whole thing, concerned with fairness… before long, Crowley is really feeling the weight of his meal, now that there’s dessert on top of it.

 

    He lays his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and when that’s not enough, he snakes around him in their back booth, half in his lap to be able to press his belly up against the warmth that radiates from Aziraphale. That helps, more warmth. He’s rubbish at generating his own, but it really aids with digestion. Doesn’t make him feel any less sleepy…

 

    “My dear.” Aziraphale chuckles. Crowley watches lazily as he drags a finger through the remaining custard on the plate and licks it clean. “You’re going to need to sober up before you can take me home.”

 

    “Too sleepy to drive us home tonight. Let’s do what people do.” Crowley says, with evident delight. “Let’s get a _cab_ , and stay at my place in _town_ , and we’ll be sober in the morning.”

 

    “Oh, I don’t know-- Well. You _are_ a bit worn out, aren’t you? Perhaps we’d best put you in your bed here.”

 

    “You’ll stay?”

 

    “I’ll stay.”

 

    “One more drink first. You haven’t had an orgasm yet.”

 

    “My _dear_ boy! It’s going to take more than one drink to get me to try one of _those_!” Aziraphale huffs, though he spoils it by giggling.

 

    “Did you just make a dirty joke?” Crowley breaks into a wide grin.

 

    “I did.” He admits. “I did a bit.”

 

    “Oh, bartender!” Crowley calls merrily, his voice reaching the bar easily-- though without being too penetratingly loud for the other patrons, he can keep that much in mind. “Another angel face for me this time, and an orgasm for Mister Fell. You know what-- make it a screaming one.”

 

    “A screaming one?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Well, dear, you know what I like.”

 

    “Are we always so tipsy on three bottles?”

 

    “Three bottles and a cocktail. No, though. I just feel giddy.” He admits, stroking Crowley’s back.

 

    “Mm, well, we had sake with dinner.”

 

    “Yes, but we sobered up to drive.”

 

    “You didn’t have to.”

 

    Aziraphale shrugs. He always sobers up when Crowley has to drive. It’s… fair, somehow. It’s right.

 

    But they don’t have to now. He pets at him, to encourage him to relax again, to give him permission to press close if he likes. His digestion, he realizes-- normally, Crowley orders a sampler platter at their sushi place. He shares a certain amount with Aziraphale, and he gets half boxed up for future. Tonight, with his fridge so far away, and not knowing he’d be spending the night at his flat in the city, he’d just eaten everything Aziraphale didn’t like, to keep it from going to waste.

 

    He ought to have refused quite so much dessert, but Aziraphale can’t blame him for wanting another bite, and another. It’s terribly good. He drags a finger through the custard remaining on the plate again, because he is just drunk enough not to feel his dignity injured by this.

 

    The last time Crowley had overindulged so, he’d unceremoniously taken Aziraphale’s hand hostage, placing it over his gut and keeping him there until he fell asleep. He’d whined something about ‘warm’, though, so once sleep took him, Aziraphale had fetched him a hot water bottle and tucked him in on the sofa.

 

    They get their cocktails, and Crowley lifts his glass, taken by a sniggering fit of his own.

 

    “Here’s to you, angel face.” He says, and drops his forehead to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

 

    “And here’s to… oh, no.” Aziraphale laughs. “Here’s to you, dear boy. Thank you, for coming out to the city with me today.”

 

    He clinks their glasses together, and watches as Crowley turns his head just enough to lap at his drink without lifting himself from his spot plastered to Aziraphale’s side.

 

    He’s not quite awake long enough to finish it. Aziraphale has to catch the glass from his hand, long after his own drink has been downed, and he takes the last little swallow, before pressing his nose gently into Crowley’s hair.

 

    “Crowley?” He murmurs gently. “Come on, you old serpent… if you’re pretending to be more asleep than you are…”

 

    Crowley doesn’t seem to be pretending. Carefully, and with just a slight miracle to get the table to leap out of the way, Aziraphale lifts Crowley up in his arms, to carry him out.

 

    “I’ve arranged you a cab, Mr. Fell.” The bartender says, with a rather surprised and impressed look to the man-shaped being curled in Aziraphale’s arms, head pressed in the curve of his neck, legs dangling.

 

    “Thank you, m’dear. I do appreciate it. We’ll come pick up the car in the morning. I’m sure it shall be quite safe, it always is.”

 

    He bundles Crowley into the cab, and manages to wake him when they reach his flat.

 

    “You can take the bed if you like.” He offers, yawning. He still leans a bit heavily on Aziraphale’s arm as they head up.

 

    “I don’t sleep, it would be wasted on me.”

 

    “Well, there’s the TV, I suppose… haven’t got anything to read left in the house, moved all my interesting things to the house.”

 

    “Oh, I don’t think I’d enjoy that, I know you don’t pay the license.” He tuts. Really, he doesn’t think there’s anything on overnight he’d want to watch. “Maybe I’d better… erm… watch you do it? And try and get the hang of it?”

 

    “If you like.” Crowley laughs. “Bed’s more than big enough for two.”

 

    “You like room to sprawl.” He chuckles warmly. “All right.”

 

    He doesn’t normally miracle up his wardrobe, but… under the circumstances, it seems prudent. He gives himself a rather Victorian nightgown, and ignores the way Crowley sniggers at him. Crowley, in his more modern silk pajamas… is that what he wears at home? He’s seen him in bed, but always under the covers, when he’s knocked softly to announce his intention to pass through to get to the master bath.

 

    He settles in to allow Crowley his sprawling space, only for Crowley to immediately tuck himself up against his side, and to once more commandeer his hand for warmth-spreading purposes.

 

    “Goodnight, my dear.” He smiles, as Crowley snores softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

    And with that, Aziraphale closes his eyes, and attempts to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazy days...

    Aziraphale banishes his hangover in the morning, wishing he’d sobered up before bed. He lets Crowley lie in a bit, dressing in yesterday’s clothes-- save his cufflinks, which he’s surprised he can’t find in a place as empty as Crowley’s, but they must have rolled off somewhere during his drunken attempt at undressing with any semblance of grace-- and heading for the kitchen. He’d expected there to be tea in the cupboard, he’d expected there to be food in the fridge-- he’d expected the kitchen to lie in wait for Crowley’s occasional return, in short, as it always was. He doesn’t know _how_ to feel about the fact that it’s all empty. The fancy appliances are still there, but…

 

    He’s a bit put out at the lack of tea, but that’s nothing to the pleasure that rises in him at the thought that Crowley had not considered wanting those things here, when he had them at the cottage.

 

    He leaves a note to indicate he’d gone to pick up breakfast, but returns to find Crowley still in bed. He bins the note and lays out the two to-go cups of coffee he’d picked up-- he’s more for tea himself, in general, but Crowley likes a particular coffee they do at the cafe up the street, and he’d thought it wouldn’t hurt to have one with him. He lays out the pastries he’d picked up, makes everything look attractive, just in time for Crowley to emerge from the bedroom in his rumpled silk pajamas, with his bedhead.

 

    Rather charming, to see him so un-put together. He sees him without his glasses more now, but he still isn’t used to it. When Crowley looks up from the phone in his hand and past their breakfast, his gaze is so warm when their eyes finally meet.

 

    “Thanks, angel.” He smiles.

 

    That sleep-rough voice, he hasn’t gotten used to that, either. The vulnerability and the sweetness, this… this-- for lack of a better word-- _human_ side of him, but not like the ‘human’ that he wears outside to blend in. The secret nooks and crannies of a shared life.

 

    Aziraphale politely waits a moment, for Crowley to document their breakfast, before he digs in.

 

    “Did you sleep well?” Crowley asks. ‘This lucky devil woke up to breakfast!’, he captions his photograph, having selected the appropriate filter.

 

    “I did. I had a dream!”

 

    “Did you? Good one?”

 

    “Well…” Aziraphale frowns a bit in concentration. “No. Not bad! Not much of anything. Just images… this bit of land floating through space, and some sort of animal walking back and forth across it… But for a first time, I think, I did well enough! Er, did I?”

 

    “Yeah.” Crowley laughs. “You did great. Maybe next time you’ll dream a bit more.”

 

    “What do you dream about?”

 

    “Dunno. Never remember.” He lies. Aziraphale doesn’t pry. They focus on breakfast a while, quiet, and then Crowley looks down at his phone and frowns. “I haven’t got one.”

 

    “Haven’t got one what, dear?” Aziraphale asks, licking his fingers. After the previous night, Crowley had contented himself with one bite from each pastry and his coffee, leaving him the rest.

 

    “A girlfriend.” He turns the screen to show the comment, from last night’s picture of their dessert. ‘Do we get to see your girlfriend?’.

 

    “You’ve never had a girlfriend.” Aziraphale blinks. “Have you pretended to?”

 

    “No.”

 

    “Mm, must be a misunderstanding. Easily cleared, I’m sure.”

 

    Crowley huffs a bit and sets about saying there isn’t one. He’d tagged his bloody location, you’d think they wouldn’t ask him about a _girlfriend_. Well, that’s not fair, he’s got followers from all over, and even in London, they wouldn’t all know the quietest gay bar in the world.

 

    Someone else has asked ‘who’s the angel?’, though, and that… Ah, that must be where the misunderstanding lies.

 

    ‘@FellBooks but he certainly isn’t a girlfriend’, he answers. There. That’s the end of that.

 

    “Have you seen my cufflinks, by the way?” Aziraphale asks.

 

    “Er, no. They’ll turn up, they might’ve rolled under the bed. I’ll crawl under before I change.”

 

    “Thank you, my dear. I couldn’t for the life of me find them when I was dressing.”

 

    “Well, you won’t need to wear them anyway, we’re just going home, but I’ll find them.” Crowley nods.

 

    Aziraphale follows him back to the bedroom, where even in his usual shape, he slithers under the bed with a remarkable alacrity and ease, hopping to his feet once he’s emerged on the other side and holding up a clenched hand in triumph.

 

    “Oh! You’ve found them!”

 

    “Rolled right under.” He drops them into Aziraphale’s jacket pocket. “Give me a minute to get dressed and we’ll go, yeah?”

 

    “Thank you, dear.” He squeezes Crowley’s shoulder, before fishing them out to put in place. True, he doesn’t need to wear them, but he may as well now that they’ve been returned to him.

 

    They make the drive home, once Crowley’s ready and they’ve retrieved the Bentley, and he still wouldn’t call himself accustomed to the way Crowley drives, but he’s beginning to feel as if he probably is safe. Back home, on the cozy little sofa in their living room, they make the formal exchange of their museum gifts, where they don’t bother to pretend at surprise, but they do each express their honest delight as they give their thanks.

 

    “One other thing, actually.” Crowley says, before Aziraphale can go and put his new mug in the kitchen. He brings out the box he’d been holding in the park, lip caught between his teeth as he passes it over.

 

    “Oh, but you-- But this--”

 

    “You made me a _sauna_ , angel, let me give you another present. I saw it in a shop while you were posting your package, it just… Well, open it.”

 

    “Oh-- all right.” Aziraphale beams. He lifts the lid slowly, savoring the moment, only to gasp softly when he’s uncovered the gift.

 

    Cufflinks, which… yes, Crowley knows he has a fondness for, nearly all his shirts use them. Most of his pairs are modest, though certainly he has some which are appropriate for fancier occasions. It wouldn’t do to be ostentatious, one feels, but it wouldn’t do to be underdressed, either.

 

    These, though… oh, _these_! Perfectly crafted little wings, bronze and blue-green, the patina artfully applied rather than the product of age.

 

    “They’re lovely.” He sighs.

 

    “Not quite enough, erm, enough colors in it. To really look like yours, I mean.” Crowley shrugs. “But they were close, I thought.”

 

    Aziraphale’s wings are something like a parrot might be, if a parrot could be somehow antiqued. The colors all seemed dulled and softened by dusty years, had since before the world began. While there certainly were angels who were in earthier tones, color was common, and normally it was bright and radiant. Aziraphale, Crowley supposes, was never meant to be very _flash_ , but there was something rich and comforting in the depth and softness of the colors of his wings. He wasn’t too bright or too much to look at. He was still certainly beautiful. Seeing those cufflinks, Crowley had been immediately put in mind of Aziraphale’s wings.

 

    “Oh, _Crowley_ \-- no, they’re _perfect_. Thank you.” He insists, fumbling to remove the ones he’d been wearing. He ought to have just left them in his pocket…

 

    “Here, let me…” Crowley leans in, delicately taking the new ones and fixing them in place, tweaking them to sit just so. “There.”

 

    “Thank you.”

 

    “Well it’s no sauna.”

 

    “I couldn’t have been happier if they were. They’re beautiful.”

 

    “Not as-- I’m glad. Reminded me of you.” He rises. “Er-- I’ve got to go-- plants. They’ve been waiting on a watering. But feel free to hang about the greenhouse if you ever feel like it, I’ll wind up there once I’ve got the indoor ones seen to.”

 

    “All right.” Aziraphale nods, letting Crowley make his escape first, before going to fetch a couple of books. He takes them out to the greenhouse, along with a cup of tea, and before settling himself, he takes a picture of his teacup steaming gently on the little octagonal table, and his books piled on the chaise waiting to be read, and all of the encroaching green and the midmorning sunlight.

 

    He captions it, simply, ‘Paradise’. And then, surprising himself with it a little, he takes another picture. With a backdrop of lush plant life, he focuses on the perfect little wing against the pale blue of his shirt cuff.

 

    ‘Given the most thoughtful gift today. Aren’t they lovely? I don’t know when I shall ever wear another pair now… I know material goods matter little in the grand scheme of things, but I confess they make me very happy.’

 

    He looks over what little he’s missed-- rescued baby animals, a new novel being praised, Crowley’s picture of their breakfast.

 

    ‘Lucky or looked after?’, he comments, and with that he sets his phone aside and settles in to read.

 

    He doesn’t look up from his book when Crowley comes in-- the greenhouse has a system to keep things watered, but Crowley still checks on all the plants. Every now and then, Aziraphale hears him whispering dire threats into the leaves of one or another.

 

    Crowley spends some time in his hanging basket chair, rather than in the armchair, Aziraphale is dimly aware of him over there, not quite within his peripheral vision, but making enough noise to know he’s there, as he occasionally flips a page in a book of his own, or as he pushes the chair to swing past and rustle the bird of paradise. Aziraphale listens to him leave that spot, listens to the water fill the big copper bath.

 

    “Would you like some privacy, dear?”

 

    “I’ll have enough of it if you’re not bothered. Anyway, nothing you haven’t seen.”

 

    “Mm. I was going to make another cup of tea… Would you like one?”

 

    “That would be lovely.”

 

    He makes the mistake of turning, then. It shouldn’t be a mistake, Crowley is right, it really isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. But the sun streams down through the plants on the mezzanine above to streak his naked back, and he holds himself even here and now as if he’s waiting to be painted by a master’s hand, and he is…

 

    Beautiful.

 

    This, too, is not news to Aziraphale. It merely strikes him all of a sudden, though he doesn’t see why it should. Crowley has _always_ been beautiful. Aziraphale has never not known that about him. He has even admired him before. They’ve relaxed in public baths together, across the eons. There’s no reason why he should look, or look away, it’s… it’s _Crowley_. It’s always just been Crowley…

 

    There is something arresting in the way the muscle shifts across his back, across his _shoulders_ , and suddenly Aziraphale wants to _touch_. Not the way he often finds himself falling into touching Crowley, not in the manner of offered arms and gentle pats and easy calming strokes. He wants to touch the back of Crowley’s shoulder, down where his wing would sprout, wants to press his hand flat to that spot and _focus_. To wrap an arm around him and rest his chin upon a shoulder and to think about it rather than merely let it happen. To touch deliberately, intently. So different from how they’ve always touched.

 

    He _likes_ the way they’ve always touched. How natural and comfortable it is. How he could find himself with Crowley in his lap and think nothing of it except to wrap an arm around him and relax… it’s _nice_ , and it’s… it pleases him to think that his own touch is so welcome that it might be sought out without a thought, that they fall into this because on some level they were always meant to be friends. That Crowley’s exile from Heaven should barely be a stumbling block to their millennia upon millennia of friendship. And it has _been_ a friendship, even before they could speak the word, even before they could think it…

 

    He _likes_ the way they’ve always touched and he doesn’t want it to change. He just wants this, also. To think, sometimes, about every aspect of the way his hand presses to Crowley, the way it might curve to fit a shoulder, or flatten against the planes of his chest, or how gently it might rest at his hip when he curls in close, overfed and lazy. To examine the perfection with which they fit each other and to think that they are not only comfortable and familiar, but _conscious_ , purposeful.

 

    Aziraphale turns to go and get the tea made, and Crowley slips through the barest gap in palm fronds, and into his bath.

 

    The water is hot, a heat that sinks pleasantly into the metal of the tub itself, and Crowley isn’t very buoyant, but he still feels a little lighter in the water. Of course the air in the greenhouse itself is wonderfully warm, not too humid, but far from dry. Everything about him _smells_ like life, smells green. He can dart his tongue out and drink it straight from the air. His jungle, his garden, his Paradise… Now _this_ is decadence, indulgence. The heat and comfort and the dappled shadows and the sunlight and the green…

 

    And tea made by an angel, coming his way. That is nice… He wouldn’t have asked, but he certainly wasn’t about to say no to an offer.

 

    He likes living together like this, where they can just… make each other cups of tea, hand each other things off the shelf, bring each other a little something from the fridge. Where they can go on making each other’s lives easier. They’ve been making each other’s lives easier a while, really… Now it’s just followed them home, that’s all.

 

    And he likes-- though he’s not sure he could ever admit it-- when Aziraphale asks for his opinion on what he ought to wear, and when he fusses about things, and when he hears him singing in the shower… By Heavenly standards, Aziraphale is an _abysmal_ singer, but Crowley doesn’t much recall the angels’ choir. Enough to know Aziraphale was _not_ invited to participate, but not enough to have a clear memory of the sound.

 

    By Hellish standards, though, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Aziraphale’s singing, as it drifts through the bathroom door over the rush of the shower. Usually some hymn or other, almost always he started with one he’d picked up in the early nineteen thirties, and sometimes there’d be a little something secular.

 

    Or maybe the standard is Crowley’s alone, as Hell would surely object to the hymns, but he often lets himself drift between waking and sleeping, curled in his bed, to be able to listen to Aziraphale warbling to himself. He’ll feign sleep a little longer some mornings for that dubious pleasure. He’s sure Aziraphale thinks he can’t be heard over the water and through the walls, or he might not sing with such gusto-- he cuts himself off from it sometimes when he’s singing to himself in the library or the kitchen, and looks embarrassed over it, and Crowley should tell him to go on if he likes, should tell him his voice is fine, at least fine for at home where it’s them, only them.

 

    He should tell him it’s a comfort to hear him, but whenever he thinks he ought to be encouraging, he’s struck with embarrassment of his own.

 

    He just doesn’t like the thought of Aziraphale being self-conscious about something that brings him pleasure, that’s all, and clearly it does. The way he sings in the shower, clearly it’s a pleasure to him.

 

    Aziraphale parts the palm fronds, and Crowley opens his eyes to an offered teacup, lips curling into a smile as he reaches for it.

 

    “Thank you, angel.”

 

    “My pleasure, dear.” He smiles back. “But I do indulge you… lazy thing.”

 

    “Yup.” Crowley tilts his head back, looking very smugly self satisfied as he drinks in the steam, getting the taste of the tea while it’s still too hot to drink.

 

    “Still…” Aziraphale’s eyes fall on the little wing on his cuff. “I suppose you do, ah… you do rather return the favor. You can be very sweet.”

 

    “Bite your tongue.” He grins. “I’m a demon. We don’t do sweet.”

 

    “Oh, of course, my mistake.” He chuckles. “You’re pure wickedness, are you?”

 

    “Yeah, just look at me.”

 

    “You’re drinking tea in a bath.”

 

    “That’s as wicked as it gets.” Crowley winks, making Aziraphale laugh.

 

    Aziraphale returns to the chaise and his own cup of tea, and Crowley sips at his and soaks, but Aziraphale returns to take his cup back, after a while.

 

    “Anything else I can do for you while I’m up?”

 

    “Yeah, yeah… get a good photo of me. I mean, you know, waist up. Probably best it’s waist up.”

 

    “You want a photo of yourself in the bath?” Aziraphale tuts, but he retrieves his phone while he’s setting Crowley’s cup aside on the table.

 

    “I’m trying to sell my decadent lifestyle.” He says, eyes falling closed. “Besides, I look good.”

 

    “Vain little beast.” He says, but Crowley has a point about looking good. Arms draped along the sides of the tub, head tilted back to show off the lines of his throat just so, skin gleaming from the water… He frames the photo carefully, not so much ‘above the waist’ as ‘above the somewhat inhuman abdominals’. “All right. I’ve sent it to you.”

 

    “Thanks.” He cracks one eye open. “You should try this sometime, by the way. Any time I’m not in here you could.”

 

    “Maybe, sometime. I brought you out a towel, by the way, just let me know when you’d like it.”

 

    “Oh-- er, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

 

    “There’s a lot of things I don’t have to do, my dear.” He shakes his head. “But I do them.”

 

    He leaves Crowley’s side and returns to the chaise, though he doesn’t pick his book back up. He simply enjoys being surrounded by all the plants. Crowley has taken very good care of them, terrorizing aside… and he supposes he has to be allowed his demonic moments. The plants are all watered appropriately, fed the right supplements, given the right sunlight… and Aziraphale is fairly certain they’ve never seen a parasite.

 

    He could get used to doing more of his reading in the greenhouse.

 

    Eventually, Crowley’s voice breaks into his reverie, and he takes him his towel, before he does go back to his book. Well, he picks his book up. He opens it. His gaze keeps returning to Crowley’s back, to the way his shoulderblades shift as he dries his arms, as he stretches.

 

    He wants, he realizes, to kiss him. Just there, on the back of one shoulder, to press his lips there once. Why, he shouldn’t wonder. Just to do once. To express the complicated swirl of thoughts and feelings he’s been struggling to put words to ever since he’d offered Crowley his hand at the end of the world. There aren’t words, or he can’t seem to find them. They seem paltry, they don’t fit quite right. ‘Thank you’ isn’t enough. That he treasures him, he can’t… How to say it, so that he wouldn’t be misconstrued? People say those things all the time, they say ‘I love you’, ‘I need you’, ‘I cherish you’, ‘I treasure you’, but they say it because they want something. They want to hear it back, or they want to be kissed, or they want to be assured of something. But Aziraphale doesn’t think he wants any of those things. He would welcome being told that he is also important, precious, needed, cared for. He would welcome Crowley’s arms around him. He would welcome some promise of a future shared, but he doesn’t need it. They have this already, he does not feel uncertain. All he needs is to be able to say what he feels so that Crowley will feel…

 

    He doesn’t know. His own feelings are so complicated as it is, he only knows he just doesn’t want to make him feel as if something is owed in return. He doesn’t want…

 

    He doesn’t want to make things uncomfortable. Not now that they have everything.

 

    Crowley curls up in his armchair at last, half-dressed, smiling over his phone.

 

    “Oh, I do look good.” He says.

 

    Aziraphale snorts, but he picks up his phone to like and comment as usual. Crowley’s posted the picture he’d taken for him, and he’s gotten in before he has to see a dozen of Those Comments.

 

    ‘#OOTD I’m thinking’, Crowley’s written. ‘and I’ll just stay in and be lazy all day’.

 

    Typical… vain, slothful, certainly bound to tempt others to lust… and yet Aziraphale can’t quite help smiling.

 

    ‘Oh, you wicked thing.’ He replies, a departure from his customary comment for Crowley’s outfit of the day selfies. ‘I do hope you’ll pull yourself together for tomorrow so we can go out.’

 

    He gets through the rest of his feed, and then gets the notification about Crowley’s likes of his own photos and response to his comment-- and the fact that his follower count has tripled.

 

    The reply is just a row of three smirking little demon emojis.

 

    “I’ve got followers.” Aziraphale says.

 

    “You had some before. You told me someone liked your library!”

 

    “Yes, but I had… only a couple, some of them were follows back. I’ve just got a bunch today.”

 

    “Well, good for you.” Crowley smiles. “Where do you want to go, anyway?”

 

    “Hm? Oh, tomorrow. I was thinking we’d explore town a little. We can eat out if you like, or we can just walk around.”

 

    “I’m still digesting.” He pats his stomach. “But maybe tomorrow… might just get a little something. Exploring sounds nice. See the shops, see if there’s a park.”

 

    “If there’s not, we could go down to the beach, I suppose, but I like a park.”

 

    “I’m content watching the sea from afar, until summer rolls around. But we’re supposed to get another couple days’ warm weather. Warm enough for a park, not swimsuit weather.”

 

    “You’re going to be a menace when it is swimsuit weather.” Aziraphale snorts. “I can see it now. You’ll be wanting all sorts of flattering angles in… brief attire.”

 

    “Maybe. Offer’s always open to have me return the favor.”

 

    “Thank you, no. I haven’t even bought a bathing costume since nineteen twenty-five.”

 

    “Do you still have it?” Crowley grins. He remembers that bathing suit… he remembers he’d insisted he was taking him to the seaside, he’d just gotten his car and he’d…

 

    They’d driven down and stayed in a little hotel for a weekend in adjoining rooms, only for once he’d barely wanted to sleep, the two of them had spent most of the night sat out under the stars talking. He’d had a swim himself, during the day, and coaxed Aziraphale in a bit, but at night… at night Aziraphale dove in, and swam out until he was a speck, and back… For all he never really swims often, he’s strong in the water, and fast. Reminded Crowley of a seal, chubby and ridiculous looking and sweet-faced and then, whoosh, off he goes, sleek and graceful as you like.

 

    When the weather allows, they could go down… they could swim at night, if Aziraphale prefers. With no one around, no one to make fun of his old-fashioned suit. When summer weather returns, maybe they could do that. The dark wouldn’t matter to them. He’d like to, just like old times… and to lie in the sand and look up at the stars. To not… to not have to put up with all the pretending anymore. Pretending it was some test they put each other to, that it was all debate and moral argument and wanting to rub each other’s faces in a victory, instead of just conversation because they enjoyed it. Because in six thousand years and counting, they haven’t run out of things to say to each other at all.

 

    “I might have it.” Aziraphale says, cheeks just starting to glow pink.

 

    “If you can’t dig it up by summer, we’ll have to buy you a new one.” Crowley says, but he rather hopes Aziraphale does. He likes the old one. Frumpish next to anything modern, and if the angel could be convinced to adopt something more recent it would surely be more comfortable than a wool knit, but…

 

    But he remembers Aziraphale emerging for the first time from the hotel room, in a suit that was mostly blue with one white stripe across the chest and one around each thigh, and a wide burgundy red stripe around the hips, and the legs stopped three and a quarter inches above the knee, and it had a scoop neck and narrow straps with wide openings for the arms where even five years back they’d all had half sleeves, and Aziraphale had called it scandalous as if people hadn’t swum naked for thousands of years. And it had been snug at the belly and across the seat, but not truly tight, not in any way that restricted his movement once he was in the water. He remembers how he’d blushed at first and how he’d grown comfortable in it, and how they’d done just enough work as to not raise any questions Above or Below, but it had all been rather lazy stuff, and how Aziraphale had refused to be tempted into an ice cream cone for all of two minutes before giving in.

 

    “I’m sure I can find it, I won’t have gotten rid of it.”

 

    “Because we could go down every day if we liked, in the summer.”

 

    “I’ll look ridiculous, of course, it’s gone out of style.”

 

    “We could go down every night, then.” Crowley slides out of his chair, pushes the pouf across the little space between them to sit on it beside the chaise, to lean across Aziraphale’s legs. “Isn’t that the point of living right by the sea? Being able to swim all summer?”

 

    “I don’t know. Maybe. If you like.” Aziraphale’s hand moves to brush through his hair, he does it without thinking. “We could go down during the day if you like, of course. Do you think it’s at all how it used to be?”

 

    “If that bloody puppet show’s changed at all between sixteen sixty and today, I’ll owe you whatever you care to wager.”

 

    “I _like_ that puppet show.”

 

    “Course you do.” He chuckles. “We could get some sun and have an ice cream and a stroll. Come back and swim at night with no one else about. You know what we could do…”

 

    “What?”

 

    “Take off flying from the back garden and dive. Drop down over the water and tuck our wings back in and make a splash.”

 

    “I don’t know.”

 

    “I know. Fly out and dive in and swim back to shore. Just us in all the world… just for the night, everything’ll be ours.”

 

    Aziraphale nods. “Well if we think of it then, certainly. It would be easy to just fly down…”

 

    He winds up staying on the chaise most of the day even when he finishes his second book, just because Crowley has become comfortable in his lap, just because it is easy and comfortable and natural to play with his hair while he dozes.

 

    When he does move him, it’s to have a light supper at their kitchen table-- Crowley eats exactly one bite, but joins him anyway for a couple glasses of wine.

 

    “You going to try dreaming again?” Crowley asks, as they drift out to watch the sunset, as he holds Aziraphale’s coat around his shoulders.

 

    “Tonight? Oh, I don’t know if I could sleep two nights in a row.” Aziraphale laughs. “Well. Maybe.”

 

    “Tell me if it’s anything nice.” Crowley leans in, their shoulders bumping together. Aziraphale’s arm comes up around him.

 

    “All right.”

 

    They watch the stars come out, and then they head in, and murmur their goodnights in the hall. Aziraphale changes into his nice tartan pajamas, which he rarely has cause to wear, but sometimes changes into at night just to mark the time, and to be comfortable if he’s only lounging and reading anyway.

 

    He settles himself into bed, but even without a book at hand, he can’t seem to make himself sleep. He winds up on his phone-- he hadn’t brought another book to bed, in order to sleep, he’d known he’d only reach for it if it were there. He doesn’t like reading books on a screen so much, though he admits it’s efficient and thinks it’s fine for some. The important thing is that people read at all, but he just prefers to have the physical object in his hands. Still, he can read articles on it, and do a puzzle, and look up area restaurants-- though he likes the one they’ve already been to.

 

    In the morning, Crowley has a cup of tea and exactly three grapes from Aziraphale’s breakfast plate.

 

    “You’ll get it next time.” He says, when Aziraphale confesses he hadn’t slept. “My fault for keeping you lazy all day, no wonder you couldn’t when you’re not in the habit. Tonight, though, if we go walk around all day. Bet you will tonight.”

 

    “Well, if I decide to try.” He nods. “Where would you like me to capture today’s outfit?”

 

    Today’s outfit is dark jeans, and a crisp dark red shirt, with the waistcoat and blazer from a black suit. In lieu of a tie, his shirt collar unbuttoned and spread open, a shiny black metal infinity symbol on a silver chain, the little pendant resting at the dip of his collarbone, only on closer inspection revealed to be a snake. Dark red lenses on the day’s sunglasses, to match the shirt.

 

    The day had promised to be warm enough that Aziraphale had gone with the natural linen-- too late in the year, he’d thought, for the white. But the natural linen, with one of his barely-blue shirts, and with a paisley bow tie he’d found in his collection that has the colors of his new cufflinks. He doesn’t suppose he and Crowley are ever truly going to look like they belong together, in anyone else’s eyes. He doesn’t suppose it matters.

 

    “By the Bentley, I’ll pull her around front and hop out.” Crowley says, reaching out to give Aziraphale’s shoulder a brief touch. “Thanks.”

 

    “Thank you for that.” He nods. He won’t complain about being spared the walk out to the garage…

 

    He gets a picture of Crowley leaning casually against the passenger side door, hand on the handle, and another as he opens it, though he only sends the first.

 

    They make the drive, pleasant and slow, Crowley making his post once they’ve parked in town-- ‘#OOTD- just me and my baby, looking sharp as it gets today.’

 

    They window shop a bit, Aziraphale going to leave his usual comment while Crowley distracts himself looking at designer sunglasses-- not that he expects he’ll actually buy a pair, he’ll just remember his favorites and manifest them when he feels like it.

 

    He frowns over the sheer number of comments on Crowley’s previous post-- quite a lot of ‘Sexy beast!’ this and ‘Hot stuff!’ that, and one rather baffling ‘DADDY’, and then he tells himself not to be silly about it. If comments of that nature don’t make Crowley uncomfortable, then they shouldn’t bother him.

 

    ‘Is your boyfriend as hot as you?’, one of the commenters asks, and that ties with ‘DADDY’ for the most incomprehensible additions, but Aziraphale has already told himself not to think about it.

 

    They browse the men’s shop a bit, but it isn’t his style, and outside of the designer sunglasses, it isn’t Crowley’s either. A couple of doors down, Aziraphale ducks into the pet shop, and Crowley follows with a groan once he realizes where he’s lost him.

 

    “Whatever it is, the answer’s no!” He calls after him, winding through the aisles-- he’s only briefly distracted by a display cage of feeder mice, an embarrassing bit of instinct he never has been able to shake, even if it never comes to anything. The prey drive just sort of sits there sending out odd impulses.

 

    He finds Aziraphale being _helped_ , cooing at the little snake wrapped around his wrist.

 

    “Aren’t you darling?” Aziraphale strokes its head, which it seems to enjoy perfectly well. “Aww… and you say they do make affectionate pets?”

 

    “We don’t have room.” Crowley says shortly.

 

    “They don’t get very big.”

 

    “One’s enough, angel, you’ve already got a snake. One that’s over six feet and bound to get jealous if you start lavishing all your attention on a new one.”

 

    “Bound to get _jealous_?” He laughs. “Is that so?”

 

    “Oh, experienced snake owner?” The clerk asks. “If you’d like to look at any of the not-so-beginner snakes, I can get them out for you. Didn’t have you pegged for the type, sorry.”

 

    “I suppose I’d better _not_ …” Aziraphale says, though he shows no signs of relinquishing the one he’s petting. “Oh, but what a _dear_ you are…”

 

    “We keep a one-snake household.” Crowley presses.

 

    “Oh, yes, wouldn’t want to cause any _jealousy_.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

 

    “It’s called responsible pet ownership.” Crowley says, only to feel his face heat and turn on his heel when Aziraphale mouths ‘pet ownership’ back at him, eyebrows climbing.

 

    “I’m only looking, dear, only looking. Do you want to pick up any heating devices while we’re here?”

 

    “No, we’re good on heat. Spoiled for heat.” He folds his arms. “Good on food, before you ask. We do not need to shop in the reptile department.”

 

    “I know we’re good on food.” Aziraphale smiles. He takes a picture of the ball python currently cuddling into his hand, and then when it seems perfectly calm, he brings it in so that it can unwind a bit from his wrist and lean into his chest, soaking up warmth. “What a sweet little thing, though, well I’m sure it won’t be long before you have a good home… So friendly!”

 

    Crowley turns back around in spite of himself, gets a candid shot of Aziraphale nose to nose with the python, its tongue flicking out at him as he all but glows.

 

    He’s not jealous, because it would be stupid to be jealous. Why did he have to go and say he’d get jealous of a bloody pet snake?

 

    He posts it, tagging Aziraphale, with the caption ‘making friends’. When Aziraphale gives the snake back, he thinks that ought to be that, but it isn’t. They continue through the shop so that Aziraphale can make a fuss over the birds next.

 

    “Absolutely not.” Crowley says, as he bends to examine some finches. “Imagine the lot of them leaving a mess all over your library! Trust me, you don’t want birds in the house.”

 

    “I didn’t say I wanted to keep them, I only said they’re sweet little creatures.” He moves on, stopping at a dove.

 

    “Remember what happened to the last one of _those_.”

 

    “Only looking-- oh, Crowley, look, lovebirds!”

 

    “We’re not buying any birds.”

 

    “Imagine having them in the greenhouse-- you like birds. And the mess isn’t that hard to deal with.” He gestures meaningfully. “Wouldn’t you like them?”

 

    “I would not.”

 

    “Well all right. But I think it would be nice. I think you would like them.” He takes Crowley’s arm and allows himself to be led out of the shop and into the next.

 

    A little secondhand bookshop, which Crowley would normally want to hurry him out of, but now it means he’ll forget the animals completely. The only animal on Aziraphale’s mind is the shop’s cat, a large fluffy point cat whose tag reads RWE, and who the shopkeep calls Emerson, and though said shopkeep says Emerson is not a particularly friendly cat, he’s soon curled up against Aziraphale’s chest as he browses the shelves, purring away and burrowing his head into one armpit.

 

    Crowley takes a few more pictures, as Aziraphale totes the cuddly beast around the shop, poring over shelves and plucking the occasional tome for perusal. He posts one, where Aziraphale has stopped to read to the thing. He reads it a bloody _poem_ , while the cat purrs and purrs.

 

    “And their lips the secret kept, if in ashes the fire-seed slept. But now and then, truth-speaking things, Shamed the angels’ veiling wings; and shrilling from the solar course, or from fruit of chemic force, procession of a soul in matter, or the speeding change of water, or out of the good of evil born--” Aziraphale turns, seeing Crowley with his phone out. “Oh. Did you want to move on?”

 

    “No.” Crowley says softly.

 

    “I thought he might appreciate hearing the poet, you know.”

 

    “A very transcendental sort of cat.”

 

    “We can go, of course.”

 

    “When you’re done.”

 

    Aziraphale nods, though he doesn’t go back to reading aloud. Emerson doesn’t seem to mind either way.

 

    “You know he’s got his own bookshop.” Crowley informs the shopkeep. “First editions and antiques. Well it’s all online now, or by appointment. But I mean, rare books. What do you want to bet he still finds something here he wants to buy? Just promise me you won’t let him walk out the door with Emerson.”

 

    “I’ll try and pry him off.” She promises.


	5. Chapter 5

    When they stop to sit at an outside cafe table for a cup of something and a light nibble, Aziraphale posts his pictures-- one of Emerson with an appropriate literary quote, one of his tea and madeleines with an appropriate literary quote, and one of the ball python, which he merely captions with ‘Met this handsome fellow in the local pet shop (@AJCrowley not as handsome as you, since I know you do get jealous)’.

 

    He’s surprised to see _himself_ in his feed, surprised to see the emotion on his own face as he reads poetry to an overlarge cat insisting upon being held, surrounded by books, the odd speck of dust caught by beams of light, if not quite as dusty and beam-y as his own shop-- ‘The cat (from a rival bookshop no less!) gets a private poetry reading’-- surprised to see the way his own face lights up as he handles the python from the pet shop…

 

    He glances up at Crowley, that surprise touching his expression, making his smile soft and vulnerable, only to find Crowley giving him the exact same look, his own phone held loosely in hand.

 

    “I don’t get jealous.” Crowley coughs.

   

    “Mm, that’s not what you said in the shop.” Aziraphale says mildly, setting his phone down and picking up his tea.

 

    “I just don’t want to be taking care of a sssnake. I’m sure I said all kinds of things in the shop.”

 

    “Oh, that you did. Do you like your coffee?”

 

    “‘S fine.”

 

    “Will you have a madeleine?”

 

    “Half one’s enough, if that’s fine.” He reaches out, waiting for Aziraphale’s nod before breaking a bite off of one. “Thanks.”

 

    “Well…” Aziraphale smiles, and the cold surety of what he’s about to say trickles down Crowley’s spine.

   

    “Don’t.”

 

    “I just want to make sure you eat enough, dear. After all…”

 

    “Angel, don’t you dare.”

 

    “That’s _responsible pet ownership_.” He sits back, thoroughly enjoying Crowley’s indignance.

 

    “I hate you.”

 

    “You do not, you wicked thing. You wouldn’t like to be without me.”

 

    “Would right now, pet ownership.” He grumbles. “And you, using it against me, some figure of goodness and right you are, teasing like that.”

 

    “I believe teasing you could be argued to be under the job description. Might I remind you, I’m not the only one who can tease. A certain demon I could name… has definitely done his fair share of teasing me.”

 

    “Yeah, but-- that’s different.” Crowley protests, though he can’t quite say how. Because he’s a demon and he’s supposed to tease, and Aziraphale is an angel so he’s supposed to take it and look all smug and righteous about suffering the teasing. Or because Aziraphale _likes_ it.

 

    Aziraphale likes it.

 

    He’d never really thought about it very deeply before, but it’s true-- Aziraphale’s always encouraging him, little hidden smiles and stifled laughs, and the way he takes Crowley’s arm sometimes the moment after Crowley has said something and Aziraphale has tutted over it and called him wicked. The way he draws him close in the very moment he tells him off for it, always as if he’s about to whisper the secret of how he enjoys it. The way ‘wicked’, in Aziraphale’s voice, so often sounds like ‘oh _go on_ ’. The way he says ‘mustn’t’ as if he’s saying ‘please’.

 

    Crowley turns back to his phone.

 

    ‘I’m handsomer than any snake’, he comments, with a little snake emoji. ‘and don’t you forget it.’

 

    He tries to ignore when, a moment later, he feels Aziraphale smiling at him.

 

    They look in a couple of windows-- a toy shop, a stationery store-- before coming to a nice menswear place, the sort that really does suit the both of them. It feels like stepping back in time just enough, and while it’s largely Aziraphale’s style, Crowley appreciates it. He just doesn’t have any need when he makes his own things, and when he’s been working from pictures in magazines and now online, so there’s no need to go into these places.

 

    “Oh… now this is ideal, isn’t it?” Aziraphale sighs, inspecting bolts of fabric.

 

    “You’d have a place to come right in town to get a new suit made.” Crowley nods.

 

    “I moved as many things as my wardrobe can fit.” He shakes his head.

 

    “I’ve got room in my closet if you want to shift out-of-season things there to make space. Just if you really like something.”

 

    Aziraphale considers the offer, looking over a suit that’s been made up and put on display. Moving past it to more fabric.

 

    “This would be very nice for summer…” He fingers a light blue linen. “Something a bit belle epoque. Summer by the sea… it wouldn’t hurt to get measured for something. Oh, but I couldn’t. I’ve three perfectly suitable suits for summer, and a smart jacket for the seaside.”

 

    Crowley has a feeling he knows which jacket Aziraphale considers smart for a day at the beach, and at this point he’s also got a feeling there’s no changing his mind on it. He’s already had his victory in talking him out of straw boaters, and that only took him fifty years of their being out of fashion.

 

    “You should.” He wheedles. “Get measured anyway.”

 

    “I don’t know…”

 

    “Could get you a summer suit as a gift. For the holidays.” Crowley leans against him from behind. “Go on.”

 

    “We’ve never done holidays before.” Aziraphale says. It’s not what he means to say-- he doesn’t think, anyway. He’s sure he ought to have said ‘oh that’s too much!’, or something of that nature, and perhaps ‘it’s so sweet of you, _but_ \--’... but he feels warm and dizzy and too happy all of a sudden.

 

    “We’ve never had a house together before.” Crowley shrugs. “We could do anything we like. And you’d _like_ a suit for summer.”

 

    “I hardly know what I’d get you that would be on par with that…”

   

    “You’ll think of something. Or you’ll ask me what I want.” He says, an enticing hiss blown into Aziraphale’s ear. “A really _nice_ suit, you haven’t had one made for you in a while.”

 

    “I got one tailored.”

 

    “And it’s very nice and I like you in it, but it’s not the same, is it? You miss the _experience_.” His hands move from Aziraphale’s shoulders to his hips, steering him towards shirting fabrics. “Having it _made_ for you, start to finish. And everything to go with...”

 

    “Dear boy…”

 

    “What do you say?”

 

    “It’s very tempting…”

 

    “If Sir does not mind my saying…” The tailor himself appears at Aziraphale’s elbow, bringing down a bolt of white and blue striped cotton shirting, holding it up next to the linen with a considering hum. “When a handsome young man wants to tempt me into something, I always say yes.”

 

    “Temptation is rather his stock in trade…” Aziraphale tuts.

 

    “I’ll bet.” He says, with a little chuckle, with a look over Crowley that reminds Crowley in an instant of how he looks.

 

    Young. Attractive.

 

    Well it’s too late to change that, or to not grab hold of Aziraphale, though it had felt so natural to do. After being so in each other’s space at home it had felt as natural as breathing-- maybe moreso.

 

    He always looks fairly young, though, and always very attractive. He goes into places enough like this one all the time and he’s not treated like a bit of fluff, he’s treated like a young man with a lot of money who might be flattered into a sale, who might be shown the best of the best and deferred to…

 

    For a moment, he wonders if he’s offended, or embarrassed, but it wouldn’t do any good to be either. He just gives his most winning smile, draping himself over Aziraphale’s shoulders.

 

    “See, _you’re_ a man of the world.” He says. “Please tell this man he needs to get measured for a nice new suit.”

 

    “His _job_ is to talk me into a suit.” Aziraphale sighs, patting Crowley’s arm.

 

    “Let the man do his job, then. You know you want one. And you could use some new things.” He turns back to the tailor. “He’s all about vintage pieces, half his wardrobe’s _antique_. Couldn’t you make something that only _looks_ like it’s a hundred years old?”

 

    “Oh, certainly.”

 

    “I don’t know…”

 

    “ _Angel_. Let me. For the holidays.” He presses.

 

    “Well… all right. What’s got into you, I wonder.” Aziraphale shakes his head, but he’s beaming as he hands over his jacket and waistcoat to Crowley, and steps up to be measured.

 

    One tailor’s having the wrong idea is harmless in the long run, Crowley thinks. He doesn’t _know_ them, he doesn’t _understand_ the way they understand at Aziraphale’s club, that he’s not that sort, that he doesn’t pick up pretty young things.

 

    It’s easy to forget that they don’t read the same way to the world. Oh, he’s aware that they look different, because he likes to stay hip and cool and Aziraphale does not, but he forgets sometimes… They’ve been by each other’s sides to greater or lesser degree so long, they knew each other when the world was so young, they were created on the same _day_ \-- only it was before they were really called days or much measured-- it’s easy to forget that because of the appearances they’ve chosen, no one sees them as being the same age. And yet he looks at Aziraphale’s face and his own and always thinks they look the same age because they always look like themselves.

 

    He consults with the tailor over pictures and patterns, enjoying the shift in respect as it becomes clear he’s calling the shots and paying the bill. He makes a mental note over pocket squares and neckties-- something he can get when the work is done and he comes to pick everything up. He’s about to sign off on everything when he spots _it_ , and he stops.

 

    “That waistcoat.” He points. It’s a beautiful thing, the cut stylish, every stitch impeccable, but it’s the fabric that catches his eye. Deep navy and gold, a celestial pattern. Constellations, swirls evocative of clouds, little moons and suns…

 

    “Ah, yes, a client’s coming by for that this afternoon. Are you thinking you’d prefer the cut to the suit you were thinking of?”

 

    “That fabric for the back of his.” Crowley says. “Just… a little hidden something. The cut has to be accurate, I want the cut to remain as discussed. I just want that little something special, for a surprise.”

 

    “Very good, Sir.” He nods, and it’s the first time he’s actually gone so far as to address Crowley as ‘Sir’, but it’s nice.

 

    He doesn’t mind a few misconceptions, but he’d like it understood that he’s got taste, that he knows exactly what he’s talking about where fashion’s concerned, and that he does have his own money.

 

    He doesn’t mind if the man thinks he’s Aziraphale’s. He’s fine with being leered at-- doesn’t mind encouraging it under the right circumstances-- but it spares him being flirted with. There’s a difference.

 

    With Crowley insisting upon making a gift of the suit, Aziraphale has faded out of the way once his measurements were taken, to look over various little accessories and let Crowley handle the planning.

 

    He takes a couple of pictures-- of the bolts of fabric on one oak-paneled wall, and of Crowley carefully inspecting a sample book.

 

    ‘Found the most delightful tailor’s right here in town. My dear friend (fig. b, the effortlessly elegant devil) has insisted upon my having my measurements taken for future bespoke additions to the wardrobe. Of course if you’ve seen his daily sartorial record, you shall understand at once why I’ve put myself in his hands in the end.’

 

    Before they leave, he buys a nice box of three white linen handkerchiefs. It’s been an age since he last embroidered a monogram… he thinks he could manage.

 

    They find the park, after that. There’s not much of it to explore, but it’s a pleasant stroll. Aziraphale doesn’t notice taking Crowley’s arm, only notices at some point that he’s had it for some time. They stop a few times-- Aziraphale takes pictures of the flowers, and the pigeons he scatters some miracled-up seed for.

 

    Crowley pulls his phone out when they reach the wishing well, when Aziraphale fishes out a coin to toss in. They collect them for some charity somehow, he expects, or Aziraphale wouldn’t bother, but Crowley doesn’t read the plaque.

 

    He gets a picture of Aziraphale’s moment of concentration, because it’s funny to him. Aziraphale, who could easily grant himself anything he wished for, tossing a coin in a well with all the ceremony of the most superstitious human.

 

    ‘@FellBooks Cute. What are you wishing for, precisely?’ He posts, before pocketing his phone and offering his arm once more.

 

    They meander their way to an ice cream cart, where they turn to each other at once, and catch each other’s eye, and laugh.

 

    “Did you want--” Aziraphale starts.

 

    “Can I get you--” Crowley stops. “Not for me, today. Wouldn’t enjoy much. I’ll get you one.”

 

    “I can get my own--”

 

    “You _can_ , sure. You could do a lot of things.” He fishes out his wallet, handing over a note to the boy manning the cart. “Well? Tell the man what you want, or I’ll have wasted my money.”

 

    “Really.” Aziraphale tuts, but… well, it is already paid for.

 

    They settle on a bench. Crowley gets his phone out, waiting for Aziraphale to be distracted by something, anything-- as it happens, a butterfly visiting the nearby flowers-- so that he can get a picture of himself leaning in to steal a taste, the exact moment where Aziraphale notices the theft.

 

    “ _Really_.” He rolls his eyes, but he smiles over at Crowley’s phone screen. “Send me a copy of that one?”

 

    “D’you want to be the one to post it?”

 

    “No, you go on ahead. But I thought I might make it into my lockscreen.”

 

    “Oh.” Crowley smiles, soft-- surprised-- and nods. He slouches down comfortably on the bench, sending the picture first before posting it himself.

 

    ‘Ice cream tastes better when it’s stolen (demon emoji, ice cream emoji, angel emoji)’, he captions it.

 

    His notifications are absolutely bonkers, but he decides to deal with it all later. Right now, he’d rather not have his attention on his phone, when they’ve got a beautiful warm day to bask in, in the here and now.

 

    They wend their way home at last when evening falls, and Aziraphale puts together a plate for himself from the contents of their refrigerator while Crowley pours the wine.

 

    “I really am considering that cookery class.” He says. “There is one. Wednesday evenings starting in a couple of weeks, if you want to join me. I thought I’d… This week, I might make a work trip and do a bit of tempting and thwarting for us both, in advance of the class starting. And then… Well of course I’d be able to get away any other night anyhow, but… In a couple days I’ll just arrange something quick. I mean… in case anyone asks for a report, we’ll have it. Don’t you think?”

 

    “Yeah. Same as always.” He nods. “Every now and then. Doesn’t seem like they expect much, at least… the occasional trip.”

 

    “Would you want to? Join me for the cookery class, I mean. It’s supposed to be simple traditional meals for the home cook.”

 

    “Yeah, maybe.” Crowley smiles, holding out a glass of red, having done his best to pair to the random assortment of leftover bits that Aziraphale had selected. “I’ll taste anything you make, how’s that?”

 

    “That’s all I need to hear.” Aziraphale takes the glass, arm remaining extended until Crowley touches their glasses together.

 

    Crowley allows himself to be tempted into a couple of choice bites from Aziraphale’s well-heaped plate, and this time, Aziraphale leads him through the library and onto the screened-in veranda, to sit and watch the sun go down.

 

    They say goodnight, already a ritual so familiar he knows he will miss it when they do take turns traveling to work. He tries to sleep, to dream, but this time when sleep won’t come, he goes back down to the library to read. There’s no point torturing himself.

 

    Crowley joins him, some hours later, sheepishly lingering in the doorway until Aziraphale smiles and beckons him in. His gaze flickers to the empty fireplace and then he moves around the room, fingertips skimming over the books on the shelves before he settles himself on the chaise there.

 

    “Couldn’t sleep either?”

 

    “Woke up.” He wraps himself in the afghan there-- one woven to look like a picture of a bookshelf.

 

    “Would you like me to read aloud?”

 

    “... Yeah. I’d like that.” Crowley says, and closes his eyes.

 

    Aziraphale reads, until Crowley falls asleep. He takes a picture of him-- it seems only fair, considering. Crowley’s expression is soft in sleep, his hair tousled.

 

    ‘Company down in the library tonight. Every time I see him sleeping, I feel as if there ought to be some Romantic painter on the other side of the room capturing the moment… Does he ever stop being camera-ready?’ He posts, his attention lingering on Crowley even still.

 

    He catches up on the posts Crowley had made-- the wishing well, the ice cream… What had he wished for at the well? He thinks he actually had, just because it felt like what a person would do, but it couldn’t have been important or he’d have simply made it happen…

 

    ‘If I told you, I wouldn’t get it, now would I?’ He replies, with the usual emoji. And on the ice cream picture, he adds an ‘Utterly wicked thing!’, and avoids looking at any of the comments. He feels less than ever as if he wants to hear strangers go on about how sexy Crowley is…

 

    He wonders what his dreams had been like. They must have been unpleasant, and he feels guilty for being glad that they brought Crowley down to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof and fixed a minor error...


	6. Chapter 6

    Aziraphale wakes with a start, only to find he’s been sleeping in his armchair. Not for very long, not long enough for anything to come of it, be it dreams or a crick in the neck. Still, it’s the closest he’s come, since that night at Crowley’s old flat.

 

    Crowley… Still sleeping on the chaise, curled up in Aziraphale’s afghan. He looks at peace. Aziraphale leans over him, stroking his hair gently.

 

    “Good morning, sleepy serpent.” He says, in soft sing-song tones. “Tea or coffee?”

 

    Crowley blinks awake, relaxing into a smile as he focuses on Aziraphale. “Coffee sounds nice.”

 

    He reaches up, squeezing Aziraphale’s arm briefly, relaxing as Aziraphale further smooths his hair before leaving his side.

 

    “Breakfast?”

 

    “Just a bite. Out on the veranda?”

 

    “If it’s not too cold for you, dear. I’ll bring it out in just a tick. Why don’t you take the blanket out with you?”

 

    There’s another one outside, at any rate, but still… Aziraphale thinks he could, perhaps, remain warm enough on the look that Crowley gives him, the gratitude and sweetness lurking in it. The little smile flashed his way that says as much as words could to thank him.

 

    Crowley bundles himself up, summoning slippers and a robe to himself-- and his phone. The view from the veranda is worth a little chill, but he takes one end of the wicker loveseat in hopes it’ll be a bit warmer with Aziraphale sat next to him. Not that Aziraphale couldn’t choose to sit somewhere else, but… here, they could share the two afghans, one draped over their laps, the other around their shoulders, breakfast tray balanced between them… angled in towards a shared footrest.

 

    He goes in to look at his notifications-- even more of them, now. The likes are giving him a headache-- time to just go back through the pictures themselves to see the comments.

 

    Breakfast in London-- ‘Looks delicious’, and varieties thereupon. He likes all of them. He smiles at Aziraphale’s comment, replies with a ‘very well looked after!’. The bathtub-- he’s already replied to Aziraphale there, but there’s a huge spate of highly complimentary new comments now. He thanks a couple of people, winking emojis to a few select favorite comments, likes the rest. A lot of the likes must be coming from this one, as well, but he’d expected it to be popular when he’d asked Aziraphale to take the picture.

 

    ‘Doesn’t your man mind sharing?’, someone asks. ‘I’d want to keep you for myself!’

 

    His man? He frowns. He’d said he didn’t have a girlfriend, so then…

 

    But he’d never said he had an anything!

 

    Maybe it’s a sensible inference-- he’d said he didn’t have a girlfriend, someone obviously took a picture of him in a bathtub, that… that is a rather intimate position for just a housemate to be in, okay, sure. But… but it’s _Aziraphale_ , none of the regular rules apply. Of course they’re intimate, they’ve known each other as long as the world’s existed!

 

    The previous day’s outfit, loads of compliments, and… oh. _Oh_ , there’s the problem-- for how often he’s called the Bentley his baby, a few confused questions about getting a look at his non-existent significant other.

 

    ‘Is your boyfriend as hot as you?’... a comment he’s gotten on two pictures now, and he’s got no idea how to tackle that one, before coffee, so he ignores it.

 

    He’s dreading what they’ve said about Aziraphale now… what if they think Aziraphale is hot? What if they think he isn’t? Crowley’s got no idea which is worse. It’s a good picture of him, too, his expression is really something…

 

    About five different people right off the bat saying ‘IS THAT HIM???’, some likes. Crowley is going through clarifying to everyone that Aziraphale is a very old friend, when Aziraphale himself appears bearing the breakfast tray.

 

    A cup of coffee, a cup of tea, some buttered toast, a bunch of grapes, a poached egg.

 

    “Come join me in the blankets.” He invites, taking the tray while Aziraphale settles, close by his side.

 

    “Thank you, my dear.” He says, and already it’s warmer, being ensconced together. “Did you want any egg?”

 

    “Just give me a little dribble of yolk on some toast?” He leans against Aziraphale’s shoulder, giving him his most winning smile-- and getting Aziraphale’s most indulgent in return.

 

    Aziraphale helps himself to the first bite of egg, and then spoons most of the yolk onto one of the slices of toast, holding it up to Crowley’s mouth.

 

    “Go on, then.” He says. “Grapes?”

 

    Crowley swallows. “If you’re in the mood to feed me. One or two.”

 

    “Well, I do have to be a _responsible pet owner_.” He teases, and shoves another bite of toast into Crowley’s mouth before he can protest.

 

    He’d complain, but… the toast is perfectly crispy and buttery, and that little bit of yolk… and Aziraphale is so warm to lean against. He can’t say no to being fed a little. He picks up the other slice of toast to offer in return, relaxing as Aziraphale nibbles at it.

 

    “All right, all right, but I’m not the pet all the time. You need responsible caring-for too, sometimes.” He grins, bumping his nose against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Proper care and feeding of one’s guardian angel.”

 

    “That makes absolutely no sense, and you _know_ that even if ‘guardian angels’ were a thing, _I_ certainly wouldn’t be one.”

 

    “You’re _the_ guardian angel. It’s what you _do_. Just because it’s not silly stuff with sad Jimmy Stewart and bells ringing, or whatever people think about. It’s still part of the job, isn’t it? You protect people. And you’re _my_ guardian angel.”

 

    “You make a compelling argument, but I don’t believe care and feeding is part of it.” He holds the bunch of grapes aloft.

 

    Crowley plucks one from the bunch by hand and pops it into Aziraphale’s mouth, his tongue snagging one for himself.

 

    “Well… I suppose a little care and feeding isn’t unreasonable…” Aziraphale allows, cuddling closer.

 

    This is the sort of thing, he supposes… this is why someone might come away with the wrong idea about the two of them. But here on Aziraphale’s veranda, there’s no reason not to be as they are. The world isn’t watching them here. Besides… he’s so _warm_.

 

    They feed each other grapes, eventually finishing their coffee and tea, eventually setting the tray aside, and Crowley swings his legs up over Aziraphale’s lap when they do, resting against his shoulder.

 

    “People online think we’re a couple.” He says, looking at his phone again. Answering a few more comments on the first picture of Aziraphale to say they’re just friends.

 

    “Why would they think that?” Aziraphale asks, his hand pausing in its rubbing of Crowley’s back.

 

    “Blessed if I know. Just because I posted a picture of you. Said you were who I went out to dinner with. But I called you a friend, I think it’s a leap to think from what I’ve posted that you’re anything other than that.”

 

    ‘He seems kind of old’, one rude person has commented.

 

    ‘You have no idea’, Crowley replies.

 

    Someone else asks the slightly less rude ‘How old is he?’-- very slightly.

 

    ‘Exactly old enough’, Crowley answers.

 

    “Well.” Aziraphale sighs, and kisses Crowley’s forehead absently. “I suppose it’s difficult to explain, to people…”

 

    “Yeah.”

 

    “Anyhow, what _would_ you like as a gift?” He asks.

 

    “I want a tree.” He smiles, tucking his head under Aziraphale’s chin. At least the cat picture has more ‘CUTE’ comments and no judgey ‘isn’t he a bit old for you’ ones…

 

    ‘He’s fluffy and selectively cuddly’, he responds to one gushing comment about Emerson. He resists the urge to add ‘and the cat’s cute, too’-- that would NOT help matters.

 

    “A tree?”

 

    “A fruit tree. For that big empty spot between the sitting room window and the hedge.”

 

    “All right, my dear, consider it yours.”

 

    Crowley hums softly, shifting to get an arm around Aziraphale, the other hand still holding his phone.

 

    The wishing well… a couple more comments from people of the opinion that Aziraphale was not as attractive, expressing some surprise at his being the boyfriend, which… Aziraphale _isn’t_ his boyfriend, but Crowley is still furious on his behalf when someone intimates he’s not good enough.

 

    ‘That’s my best friend, asshole. A) No one drags him but me. B) He’s not interested in you being attracted to him so your opinion doesn’t matter. C) You’ve got rubbish taste anyway’, he replies to one.

 

    The ice cream picture, that’s got nearly as big a response as the bathtub had. Well it isn’t his fault if people have misinterpreted the relationship! If they see him teasing and assume! And it’s not like he can argue with comments that say ‘You two are so cute!’, they… they sort of _are_ , it’s just… It isn’t _like_ that. He winds up merely saying ‘thanks’ to a couple people. He doesn’t know what else _to_ say.

 

    He supposes he can see it. If he didn’t know them, he supposes he can see what other people see… Aziraphale’s ‘oh, you’ look, his own mischievous grin, the shared ice cream, even if it wasn’t really shared… but it isn’t his fault people think that way!

 

    Aziraphale’s the one who’d tagged him to call him handsome, though, in that snake picture! Maybe some of it is his fault. He goes to check Aziraphale’s picture, and the first thing to greet him is… _him_. Sleeping in the library. Aziraphale’s glowing description of him, dripping with familiarity and fondness.

 

    It’s not a bad picture. He looks so untroubled, considering the nightmares that had him heading down to the library in the first place… Nightmares he’s been having a while, though it hasn’t been enough to get him to give up the sleep habit. And Aziraphale had been good enough not to ask. There’d been no nightmares after he’d found sleep again, but he must have wanted to ask. And maybe… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to say.

 

    “Dreamt we had a fire.” He admits, his voice soft.

 

    “What’s that, dear?” Aziraphale asks, but he’s holding him a little closer already.

 

    “Came down to find you because I dreamt we had a fire. Usually it’s not the cottage and I can go back to sleep, ‘cause it already happened. This time I dreamt it was here.”

 

    “Oh, my dear…” He presses a kiss to Crowley’s hair and then rests there, just holds him, just breathes, just radiates that steady, dependable, warm Aziraphale-ness. “Usually?”

 

    “Yeah. Dream about the shop fire sometimes. It’s not so bad, they’ll fade in time, it’s just fresh… but then I dreamt it was here, dunno… wanted to find you and just… sit a while with you.”

 

    “Well, I’m glad you did. You’re a welcome addition to my night, any time.”

 

    “Mm. Think it’s a bit your fault, you know. Erm, not that-- I mean, people thinking we’re a couple.”

 

    “How is it my fault?” Aziraphale rears back a bit.

 

    “Oh, oh, if it pleases the court!” Crowley sits up straighter, though he doesn’t leave Aziraphale’s lap. “Exhibit A, you called me more handsome than a snake!”

 

    “Well, aren’t you?”

 

    “Exhibit B, you took a picture of me sleeping.”

 

    “You took pictures of me when I didn’t notice, I don’t see how it’s different. So-- so Exhibit A for whichever side I am, your pictures of me!”

 

    “Exhibit C, you…” He struggles a moment, looking at his phone. He can’t quite explain how the picture of him at the tailor’s comes across that way. Aziraphale plainly refers to him as a friend, nothing more. “Exhibit C…”

 

    “Exhibit B for my side, you’re the one who posted us sharing an ice cream.” Aziraphale says, with no small amount of triumph. “Which I believe is a thing couples do do.”

 

    “Yeah, but so do we.” Crowley makes a face. “It’s not couple-y for us!”

 

    “No, but strangers wouldn’t know that.”

 

    “I’m always tasting things and you’re always finishing them, that’s how the whole system works!”

 

    “I’m not arguing with you, my dear. I’m only saying strangers don’t know that.”

 

    “Ah! Aha! Exhibit C, you call me ‘dear’ all the time.”

 

    “I call everyone ‘dear’. Did you-- would you like me to stop?”

 

    “No!” Crowley clings a little tighter. “No… of course not. I mean… I mean, we’re not the ones who need to change! All I meant is it’s not my fault people think… I didn’t do anything to make people think that. That’s all.”

 

    “It’s all right. All we have to do is say it’s a bit of a misunderstanding and we’re good friends, and anyone who can’t understand that, it really doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.” He promises. “It doesn’t bother me if a few people here and there mistake us for… for being romantically involved. It’s not as if they know what we are, and it’s not as if we could explain it to them.”

 

    “Well… if it doesn’t bother _you_.” Crowley relaxes slowly. “I could do worse than to be romantically linked to an angel. I mean-- you know, in the court of public opinion. Not… Just, I could do worse.”

 

    “Yes, we both could. If… if we were-- I mean, if we were people.”

 

    “Yeah. If we did that sort of thing. Romance. Not a lot of romance in Hell.” Crowley sets his phone aside and buries his face back into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck. “Suppose there’s some now and then but it’s not like on Earth, anyway. Love’s discouraged, Downstairs.”

 

    “Not much of it in Heaven, either. Not like on Earth.” Aziraphale nods very slightly. “It’s the… the sense of priority that’s discouraged. Having special favorites too much, or… you know.”

 

    “Yeah.”

 

    They stay as they are a while, Crowley half-dozing against Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale enjoying the view as he idly pets at his hair or strokes his back.

 

    He doesn’t suppose it should bother him what anyone thinks. He _does_ love Crowley, even if he’s never put so much of an earthly label to it as to consider romance… He’s never…

 

    Well. No. He _likes_ romance. He knows he is capable of romantic feeling. He’s _wept_ over books, and he’s imagined… He’s imagined himself swept off his feet by some dashing hero or other. Sometimes they have looked a bit like Crowley, in his mind’s eye. But… but it doesn’t mean anything, if he’s sometimes wanted, or sometimes longed… He’s never seriously considered that it might mean something about the two of them.

 

    His love for Crowley is what it is. And after all, as friends, he is allowed to hold Crowley in his arms like this. He is free to dote on him and be doted on, feed and be fed, nurture and be nurtured. There is nothing to stop his sharing Crowley’s bed on occasion. He is free to express the opinion that Crowley is beautiful, free to take his hand or his arm. They can while away whole days in each other’s company even without having anything in particular to do. Things are comfortable like this-- things are safe. After everything, he just wants things to be safe…

 

    Besides, romance… Suppose it’s not _them_? Suppose it’s not Crowley? But Aziraphale doesn’t need him to profess his romantic love undying, doesn’t need passionate kisses and embraces. He would like some things… he would like certain intimacies. They needn’t be romantic if it doesn’t suit them. He shouldn’t feel suddenly unloved if Crowley were to say ‘I don’t feel romantically towards you at all’! How silly to hang so much on one single type of love, when Crowley teases him and feeds him and cuddles up to him and makes him so achingly happy in their home. He has never felt so loved, blasphemous as the thought may be, never so loved as Crowley makes him feel just by being his dear friend.

 

    And yet… would a romance allow him to place his hands upon Crowley with deliberate purpose? Would a romance allow him to kiss the back of his shoulder? He had kissed his brow without a thought and Crowley had accepted it in stride as part of the fabric of their new interwoven life, but it would be different if he’d thought about it first and then done it. If it was a thing heavy with intent. Would a romance allow him to insert himself into baths, showers? To bathe and groom in order to fully express his care? Would he spend his nights in Crowley’s big bed, not as an occasional thing, but regularly? And how would he be touched in return? How much of himself would he be expected to give?

 

    Is there any part of himself he would care to hold back?

 

    He’s beginning to think there is not.

 

    No, if they were lovers, Crowley would have the full measure of him any time he wished to know him. A demon is still, in essence, mostly angel, there are so many things they could share… things Crowley would understand well.

 

    But he can’t ask him for that, he doesn’t think.

 

    Still, what they have makes him happy. No sense dwelling on what he can’t have when what he has is wonderful, is worth the world. He can’t imagine… he can’t imagine how he could ever have been happy in Heaven after the war, if it had gone off, how he could ever have lived each endless blessed day pretending there wasn’t a demon-shaped hole in his heart. How he could even have existed if Crowley did not.

 

    “What would you like to do today?” He asks, his throat a little tight. If Crowley notices, or notices Aziraphale holding him a little harder, he doesn’t say.

 

    “You decide. You’re the one going off to work soon.”

 

    “Let’s go the other way, that little village we’ve not tried yet. We’ll do lunch. Then you can pick how we spend the evening.”

 

    “All right. Let me go and get dressed, then.”

 

    “Oh, yes, I’m not at all decent.” He chuckles, releasing Crowley.

 

    Crowley takes the tray in, and they head upstairs to dress-- Crowley’s usual modus operandi is to manifest whatever he feels like, but Aziraphale knows he keeps the things he really likes for future use, if only to have the look of a closet with some fashionable things in it. One of his old pictures had been his closet in his flat, back when he’d kept his things there.

 

    Aziraphale picks out the navy tartan suit, and then puts it back, frowning a moment. No, the double-breasted camel, the french blue shirt with the contrast collar and cuffs. The paisley tie that looks so well with his cufflinks… It’s not hip, no, but… it isn’t tartan, at any rate, which Crowley likes to tease about, and it’s… It flatters, he thinks. It’s as close to ‘hip’ as he expects he’ll ever be, it’s neat and it’s sharp and it’s got a bit of personal flair.

 

    He wonders what they look like, as a couple… how do people take them? It’s hard to remove himself enough to see. He looks… stuffy, he’s aware. Whether in his very nice suits or his rather shabbier things, he looks stuffy and professorial. Not joyless, but fussy and particular. Which he supposes is not inaccurate. He looks to be a certain age, he looks calculatedly sexless, but most certainly leaning in a certain direction. He knows what _he_ looks like, he’s just never considered what he looks like as half of a couple.

 

    Well, Crowley! Crowley looks young, rakishly handsome-- pretty, at the right angle, if he chooses to be, but he’s preferred handsome for the past couple hundred years, on the whole. Crowley looks _cool_. What do people imagine a young man like that sees in him? Crowley is the one with money-- well, they’re both fine for money, really, but Crowley’s the one with the designer sunglasses, the flash bits of jewelry, the fashionable new suits… Aziraphale’s nicest clothes are all worn and much-repaired. Respectable, but certainly not a sign of current wealth. Crowley’s the one with the car. When he tries to view them from a human perspective, he can’t quite see how they fit.

 

    Except… there, in that picture of the two of them, they look happy. They look _fond_. Well, they are fond! They’re very fond, of course, but no one would understand how long they’ve known each other. You look at someone very fondly indeed when he’s been at your side for six thousand years and through the end of the world and even after. Even if he’s stealing a lick of your ice cream. Anyway, ice cream Crowley bought for him, so it’s only fair.

 

    Crowley is downstairs waiting, when Aziraphale is finally ready, having run a comb through his hair and dabbed on just the lightest touch of cologne. He rarely does, he’s not sure why today of all days he had, he normally reserves it for very special occasions. For concerts and operas and such.

 

    Crowley looks… Crowley looks very handsome. His hair is unruffled, sleek. His suit is a tight black and white houndstooth that reads as grey with enough distance, quite outside his usual. Wine red silk tie and pocket square, the burgundy snakeskin loafers, the tie pin Aziraphale had given him so long ago…

 

    The fit of the suit is very Crowley, of course. Italian cut and _very_ fitted along the leg. But the fabric…

 

    He grins, taking Aziraphale’s wrist and drawing him along through to the greenhouse. The anteroom with the potting tables and the rows of flowers… Crowley stops along his row of orchids, arranging himself a boutonniere out of a rather handsome phalaenopsis.

 

    “One for you?”

 

    “A bit showy for me, I think.”

 

    “Ah, then you must be wanting…” Crowley snakes his way over to the long table of carnations, snipping one. “The Olivia! Perfect for the _discerning_ gentleman of rather specific tastes. Old-fashioned, but always charming.”

 

    Aziraphale holds still, grinning brightly as Crowley gets it set in place for him. Rather more familiar to him than an orchid would be, though there’s no arguing the exotic bloom suits Crowley’s style. He follows him through to the main greenhouse, and obligingly gets a picture of him sprawled attractively in his hanging basket chair.

 

    It’s Crowley who insists on getting both of them, over by the piano.

 

    After he posts his minimally-captioned outfit of the day, he gets the two of them, squeezed into frame together and smiling. Looking, for once, exactly as if they belong together.

 

    ‘Another day out with my oldest and best friend before he’s got to travel for business, just making the most of our free time now we’ve got it.’ Crowley writes.

 

    “There. That’s… that makes it very clear, I think.” He shows Aziraphale, before hitting post. “That we’re friends, and we’d naturally want to spend time together when neither of us is out of town?”

 

    “I think so, unmistakably clear. Very good friends.”

 

    “Good.” Crowley posts it, and offers his arm. “Problem solved.”

 

    “Yes. Well, let’s.”

 

    The drive is pleasant, the little village charming-- it reminds them both of old times, when several places now far more built up and out were like this.

 

    There’s a yarn shop, which Crowley peers into a bit, touching a few things.

 

    “Do you want to get anything?”

 

    “Dunno, I haven’t knitted in an age. More than an age.” He laughs. He had done, must have been the bronze age when he’d taken it up… it was something to keep from being relentlessly bored, he’d actually quite liked knitting gloves… one of those things that once he’d had the hang of doing it, he could just… do. True, when he was cold, he could just make gloves to fit his hands perfectly, and when he did, they were usually leather, sometimes even fur-lined, he didn’t wear the ones he made out of wool. He abandoned them one at a time in perplexing locations, usually.

 

    Now, though, he supposes he could use something to fill his free time… a hobby he could do in his greenhouse instead of merely lazing about. He enjoys lazing, of course, but he could use things to _do_ , too. And he would be _mostly_ lazing as he knit.

 

    Also, now, he watches Aziraphale’s fingers play over a few skeins, and linger on one. A deep antiqued teal-and-natural variegated thing…

 

    “Local wool?” He asks the girl behind the counter, holding one up only once Aziraphale has moved on to admire balls of roving labeled by breed of sheep.

 

    “Yes, Sir. Hand-spun and hand-dyed.”

 

    “Right.” He grabs a second of the same, and then a buttery yellow sock weight. A couple pairs of nice wooden needles. “These, then, thanks. Been out of practice a while, but I don’t think I can mess up a scarf, and then… well, if I need to brush up, there’s video tutorials for everything now, isn’t there?”

 

    “Very good, Sir. Yes, I expect so.”

 

    “Taking it up again?” Aziraphale smiles, when he collects him.

 

    “Yeah, thought I might. Give me something to do while you’re at work.” He smiles, taking his arm. “Come on. I saw a little bakery just up the street, what say I tempt you into having cake for lunch?”

 

    “Cake for lunch? Oh, you are working overtime on me. Well… consider me _potentially_ tempted, though I shall feel slightly more virtuous if there’s something savory for beforehand… it feels very decadent, just having cake.”

 

    “I know.” Crowley purrs. “That’s because it is.”

 

    “Oh. Well-- _well_ …”

 

    Aziraphale lets himself be led along, beaming as Crowley installs him at a sunny sidewalk table, pushing in his chair for him.

 

    “Suppose I go in and get us whatever looks really good?” Crowley asks. Six thousand years, and that particular winning smile is still something Aziraphale has little defense against…

 

    “Surprise me, my dear.” He smiles.

 

    He gets a picture of the bakery’s sign, while Crowley is inside, posts it with the caption ‘Being treated to a bite by a very dear friend!’

 

    Crowley rejoins him fairly shortly, relaxing into his own seat, and it’s not long after that that their server brings out a pot of tea for the both of them, along with an enormous slice of cake.

 

    “Champagne buttercream and raspberry filling.” Crowley says, getting a generous forkful while Aziraphale pours.

 

    “Oh, that sounds lovely, dear.” He leans in, accepting it, before he adds cream and sugar for both of them.

 

    “You like it?”

 

    “Mm.” He nods. “Very nice, wonderful choice, my dear.”

 

    “Well, I know what you like.” Crowley smiles, surrendering the fork so that Aziraphale can feed him a bite in return.

 

     “Do you? What else do you think I’d like?”

 

    “Oh, a little stroll past the duck pond, and then a quiet night in at home. Bundle up for a picnic out where we can see the sea, watch the sun go down, and then maybe you’d come join me for a Cary Grant movie in bed.”

 

    “Oh.” Aziraphale leans back, blinking. “Yes-- yes, I’d like that very much.”

 

    “See, I’m Earth’s resident expert on what you like, angel.” He feeds him another bite of cake. “Best just accept that right now.”

 

    “Accepted.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale spends a few days away, and the two discover it doesn't take nearly as long as it used to for them to miss each other.

    They may not be romantically involved, but Crowley doesn’t think there’s any spouse on earth who could have arranged a finer pre-business trip evening than he had done. He doesn’t think either of them are going to get tired of the sunset any time soon… everything still feels so wonderful just for existing after they nearly lost it all, and picnicking out near the cliffs makes for a spectacular view for it.

 

    “Do you want to stretch ‘em?” He asks, looking over to Aziraphale, watching the pleased surprise, the hesitation and doubt, the redoubled happy surety.

 

    “I do have a flight to make tomorrow, I think it would be good to.” He nods, accepting Crowley’s hand up. Holding it still, for the stroll out to the cliff’s edge.

 

    They let go in order to be able to give each other room for their wingspans, and for a moment it feels like too much distance until the moment a couple of Aziraphale’s primaries brush his own.

 

    All right, so maybe he would like a grand romance. He likes flirting with Aziraphale but there’s never been any _expectation_. Aziraphale’s an angel, romance isn’t… Well, like they’d both said. It’s not the done thing. It’s just…

 

    If they were, he’d be free to go over and neaten the permanently wonky alular feathers, just in need of proper grooming. He’d be able to preen the ever-ruffled coverts, smooth everything out, make sure the powder down was properly distributed. He’d be permitted just to touch. The softness of contour feathers, and the downy fluff beneath… and the deep teals and blues, the soft bronze-y golds, the twin spots of faded red, up where the marginal coverts and tertiaries converge. Beautiful in the sunlight, but he doesn’t know how to ask to see them, when that’s not…

 

    Anyway, they’re beautiful in the moonlight, too.

 

    Crowley spreads his arms as well, before falling forward, swooping up on the sea breeze. He keeps Aziraphale in his periphery as they both wheel around a bit. Aziraphale does less climbing and diving, but he does a single barrel roll when he has a bit more of Crowley’s attention. Every so often, Crowley thinks he hears his laugh on the wind.

 

    They return to touch down by the picnic blanket by mutual agreement, through a reading of each other’s body language, traded nods. Crowley thinks if they were lovers, they would fall into each other’s arms, that he might ask to be in the circle of Aziraphale’s wings, or cover him with his own.

 

    “You forget how nice it is, don’t you?” Aziraphale says, with a soft little laugh, as they begin simply packing up the remains of their picnic. “To do it just for pleasure and not for purpose.”

 

    “Yeah. It’s more hassle in the city. You’ve got to remember to hide yourself from mortal eyes and all…”

 

    “I mean, we always did, but it’s different when you’re flying for business, just the same.”

 

    Aziraphale folds his wings away, and Crowley does the same, carrying the blanket and wine bottle in as Aziraphale takes the plates and glasses.

 

    “Go on and change for bed and meet me in my room? Be up in a minute-- and leave the washing up, go on.” Crowley urges, and with a little nod, Aziraphale acquiesces, touching his shoulder gently in passing.

 

    He heads up once he’s got popcorn, and a couple of mugs of cocoa, finds Aziraphale perched on the edge of the bed in tartan pajamas.

 

    “I didn’t know which side…” He rises.

 

    “I normally sprawl out in the middle, so it’s up to you.”

 

    Aziraphale nods, rearranging the pillows to sit up against, taking the side he’d wound up on back in Crowley’s London flat. Once he’s settled, he lets Crowley pass the tray off to him, and he waits for him to fiddle with the DVD player and then to come join him, the duvet across their laps.

 

    Aziraphale isn’t much of a fan of television, but films… films he likes, or at least he likes some of them. He likes Holiday, he’d dragged Crowley to go and see it in 1938 after pestering him a week straight about how much he’d like it, he’d been so enthusiastic Crowley had been forced to try to pretend he didn’t care for the film at all, though the fact that he’d laughed at all the jokes and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand at two different points made it a rather difficult lie.

 

    “I always think it takes him long enough to pick the right girl.” Crowley grumbles, as if he doesn’t love the whole mess.

 

    “Oh, hush.” Aziraphale nudges him, and allows him to settle in against his shoulder.

 

    Crowley only really leaves Aziraphale’s shoulder in order to lean down and snag the odd piece of popcorn with his tongue. Otherwise, it’s just very cozy being able to watch like this.

 

    They probably could do, now, at the cinema… People are already mistaking them for a couple and not taking violent issue with the fact they’re both, well, man-shaped. They may as well, they could hold hands at the tense bits or lean on each other.

 

    “Bringing Up Baby had a leopard in it.” Crowley whispers, about midway through. “This one hasn’t got any leopards at all. Rubbish, if you ask me.”

 

    “And yet when you were allowed to choose the movie, you did not choose Bringing Up Baby…”

 

    “Well, I know _you_ like this one.” He attempts a long-suffering air, and is ignored.

 

    Were he honest, not that it is his policy to be too honest, Crowley would have to say that aside from the sore lack of leopards, he does like Holiday better. He likes the memory of sitting in the cinema beside Aziraphale. He likes the silly professor and his silly wife. He likes the love story that unfolds not from a series of wacky mishaps but a very honest friendship between two people who are very like each other at heart. He likes watching Linda Seton go off.

 

    He likes the faint, faint sound of Aziraphale’s lips and his breath, as he mouths along, almost unvoiced until he can’t quite stop himself whispering ‘oh, how I’ll believe in those peanuts’.

 

    He likes that quite a lot.

 

    “I like them both.” Aziraphale answers at last, when the film reaches its end.

 

    “Not equally.”

 

    “Well… I like Johnny Case more, I suppose, as a protagonist.”

 

    “Even though he doesn’t sing to any leopards.”

 

    Aziraphale laughs and nudges at him. “Even though he doesn’t sing to any leopards. I just… I think he’s admirable.”

 

    “For deciding he doesn’t want to work?”

 

    “He doesn’t want to go into some meaningless business and not know what it’s all for, he wants to see the world and know who he is. Why should he want to go into an industry concerned only with acquisition? He’s a dreamer… he’s sensitive and imaginative, that world’s not for him. Maybe he could do well enough at it, if he had to. He’d find a way, he’d say you get used to it and it’s not all bad. But it wouldn’t… but if he could have something better, something he’s suited for, if he could do anything other than follow that path, he’d be happier. And the world would be just that little bit brighter. He only needs someone to believe in him, to give him the space to be his own man and dream his dreams. And he finds that in Linda, and I think it’s beautiful. I think he deserves the life he’s dreamt up for himself and the plans he’s made. He shouldn’t have to fit the mold, it’s an awful mold to begin with.”

 

    “Lucky him he’s marrying a millionaire if he doesn’t want to work.” Crowley snorts, though at another reproachful nudge, he softens. “Actually I feel bad for her. Linda. She’s got an imagination. She’s got a sense of humor. She’s got a spine of her own, which none of the others have, they all just fall in line under daddy dearest, even Ned’s not got any spine. Think of all the years of stealing away to the nursery just to be in a place that wasn’t… regimented and ruled over and colorless and dull. How many times has she had a dream and no one to believe in it for her? Probably spent her whole life knowing Julia was the pretty one, the good one, knowing she didn’t fit into this whole world, but she wouldn’t fit into another one. That’s the trouble with being born to luxury, if she really struck out without her family, she wouldn’t be able to survive it alone. She’s got the grit to say to hell with it, but she couldn’t lose everything at once and make it. Maybe the two of them could be each other’s safety net, but… but you know. Here she’s got her gilded cage and it’s too small for her to spread her wings. It’s always satisfying, seeing her shout ‘em all down in the end, when they decide they’re it for each other and they’re ready to live on their own terms. It always-- What?”

 

    Aziraphale is staring, and Crowley’s not sure how long he’s been staring for, his lips parted and his eyes just a little bit too wet. Not so most would notice, but Crowley knows him well enough to see it.

 

    “Well said.” He blinks, turning back to the blank screen. “Very well said. I suppose she wouldn’t have… wouldn’t have made it alone if she’d merely left her family. And they’re not all bad. She wouldn’t want to be cut off from Ned-- she wouldn’t want to be cut off from Julia, either, even if they don’t see eye to eye on anything. That’s her sister, it means something. But they could make it together, couldn’t they? See the world and figure themselves out and settle down and dream. They can do that together. That’s… that’s what makes it such a lovely story, I mean. The feeling that when it all ends, they’ll live happily ever after.”

 

    Crowley takes his hand. “Yeah. Makes for a nice picture. That’s… that’s probably why I like it better than Bringing Up Baby.”

 

    “Do you, now?” He laughs.

 

    “It’d be better with leopards in it, still.” He settles back down against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

 

    “The well-known cinematic standard, how many leopards a film has.”

 

    “Yeah. If a film gets four spots, you know it’s got proper leopard content, but three’s all right. One spot, not any leopard at all. Two means there’s technically a leopard, but you’re on thin ice.”

 

    “My dear…” Aziraphale chuckles, turning in towards Crowley, nose winding up in his hair. “Has anyone ever called you a ridiculous creature?”

 

    “Only my very nearest and dearest are permitted to do that.”

 

    “Ridiculous creature.”

 

    “Yes.”

 

    They rest against each other like that a long moment, before Aziraphale shifts. He hesitates a moment, and then brushes a very soft kiss across Crowley’s forehead. It is…

 

    Deliberate.

 

    He waits to be told he oughtn’t have. He waits to be asked to go down the hall.

 

    Instead, Crowley lifts their joined hands, and kisses the back of a finger, soft and brief and natural as breathing. Which, similarly, is something they needn’t really engage in to live, but it’s comfortable and it usually feels right to do.

 

    Now that kisses have become a permissible affection passed between them, Aziraphale knows which he’d rather do without. It’s the one he couldn’t do underwater or in the vacuum of space.

 

    “Sleepover?” Crowley suggests. “If you want to try and get some sleep before your trip you may as well get it here as your room, but we could put on another film.”

 

    He could scoff, of course. ‘Sleepover’ would sound juvenile if he were merely as old as he looks. He doesn’t scoff, he doesn’t want to. He wants to _stay_.

 

    “It is rather late, maybe just… maybe just trying to sleep.” He nods. Crowley smiles, it blooms slowly across his face, warmth glowing in his eyes. What would it be like, to have this every night? For it to be allowed, or even expected, to reach out, to touch his lovely face, to draw him in for a kiss. One on the lips.

 

    And yet, if they had been lovers when they moved in, he supposes he would miss the sweetness of the offer. There’s something in the fact that this is not his bed and yet he may stay in it. That even if he is not a lover, his presence is comfortable or even desirable, just…

 

    Just because it is easy to relax when he is a nearby shape in the dark.

 

    Crowley gets the tray with the mugs and popcorn bowl out of the way and the lights turned out, and Aziraphale gets the pillows sorted out again, and then he finds himself with a demon draped across his chest.

 

    “Hullo.” He blinks.

   

    “ _Warm_ …” Crowley hisses, pressing even closer.

 

    He’s full enough from mindless popcorn nibbling after a fair amount of dinner, the warmth of curling up against Aziraphale is enough to put him right to sleep. Especially with the covers tucked up around him by a caring hand, and a little backrub.

 

    Aziraphale expects to be trapped beneath him and awake all through the night, but it really isn’t long before he’s asleep as well.

 

    He dreams of a sweeping marble staircase, ascending it to find a grand corridor. Room upon room of some fine house bustling with his fellow angels. They move in and out, in somber suits and gowns, in robes. They whisper to each other in melodious voices just too quiet to understand. They look at him, but never for long. There are sitting rooms where they converse, and music rooms where they sing praise unending, and office upon office where the celestial spheres are organized, where records are kept of all things, where lives are balanced on precise little scales, where messages are drafted for prophets to receive.

 

    The house is black and white, the angels as well, but the potted plants that dot the corridor between big double doors, those are green.

 

    Nothing really happens, he just wakes up in the morning with a vague sense of unease. The unease lifts a little, with the weight of Crowley against him. The way the demon snuffles into his chest with that universal air of a being who wishes not to wake just yet.

 

    “Crowley.” He whispers.

 

    “Nn.”

 

    “Crowley…”

 

    “ _Gnnh_.”

 

    “If you want breakfast before I go, you’ve got to let me up.”

 

    “Hrmgrn.” He winds himself more firmly around Aziraphale still.

 

    “Up, you.” Aziraphale throws the covers off, and Crowley yelps, rolling off him to cocoon himself in the duvet again. “Would you like any breakfast?”

 

    “No.” He grumps.

 

    “Cup of tea?”

 

    “Yeah, all right.”

 

    “All right, you doze if you like and I’ll bring it you in a bit.” Aziraphale pats his hip, through the thick, pillowy duvet.

 

    He takes the tray when he goes, and Crowley closes his eyes and drifts aimlessly, rolling to where sunlight stripes across the bed.

 

    When Aziraphale returns with a cup of tea, he’s dressed-- grid-patterned shirt under the moss green suede vest, one of several tweedy jackets with the leather elbow patches. The wide-wale corduroy trousers he knows to be worn nearly smooth across the seat, and halfway there on just the left knee, because it’s the side he goes down on when he’s organizing his lower shelves…  Crowley rolls over and reaches out, hand closing around that knee as Aziraphale sets the teacup down on his nightstand.

 

    “Good morning, my dear. Jasmine, no cream, no sugar.”

 

    “Did you sleep?”

 

    “I did. I dreamt… I dreamt something. I think I was in Heaven, though it didn’t look at all like Heaven. But there were angels there, mostly working, so it must have been.”

 

    “Oh.” Crowley frowns softly. “Think it’s a sign you miss it?”

 

    Aziraphale laughs. “Definitely not that. I think… I was more interested in the houseplants than anything anyone was doing? I don’t remember it so well now… it was odd. I certainly don’t feel filled with a longing to return now, no… I shouldn’t like to know what everyone thinks of me-- well, I don’t think they’d remember what I’d done. It’s so… dream-like as it is. Anyhow, I certainly didn’t… didn’t choose Earth just to want to rush back Upstairs any time soon, if it can be helped. Er-- I’ll be setting off.”

 

    “Take a scarf. You can borrow mine if you like, it’sss hanging in the front hall.” He offers, hiss of a lisp coming out because he’s letting himself taste the air, lengthening tongue funneling in the warm smell of Aziraphale in that outfit. That’s the problem with Aziraphale’s wardrobe, his clothes all smell weirdly nice, and they smell even nicer on him.

 

    “I’ll take a scarf. But you’ll want yours, dear, if you need to go into town for anything, it’s supposed to be chilly this week. I’m going to stop a few places and then I’ll be home in a few days.”

 

    “All right, angel, well… take care.”

   

    Aziraphale smiles at him, warm and just a bit puzzled. “You as well, then.”

 

    He lets himself out. Crowley regrets not getting up for a hug, except they’ve never hugged before when one of them has been heading out. He listens for the door, imagines Aziraphale taking off, to fly unseen to wherever he’s heading first.

 

    Crowley gets out his knitting needles and wool, and repairs to the greenhouse to make himself comfortable. Before he gets started, he snaps a picture of himself, in the black silk pajamas and red silk robe, comfortably settled into his armchair..

 

    ‘Quiet day in, no #OOTD, just this handsome devil home alone’

 

    After a moment, he texts Aziraphale. _Let me know when you land_.

 

    That done, he gets to work on the first scarf he’s attempted making in near to three thousand years, with just a little help from youtube in remembering how to cast on.

 

\---/-/---

 

    Aziraphale texts Crowley back, and quickly discovers how much easier the job is with texting an option. He’s able to update him on the fly as to where and when ‘his’ temptations are supposed to have happened. He sends him pictures that he doesn’t post to Instagram, where he’d have to be able to explain not only his scattered, wide-ranging travels but also why he’s not doing anything related to his supposed job.

 

    He comments on Crowley’s daily selfies, of course, and gets a few pictures texted to him from the greenhouse, showing off the progress that certain plants are making. It’s nice… though he misses having him so close at hand. He stops at restaurants and thinks of what Crowley would order for them, he looks at the sights and imagines how Crowley would insist upon angling his photographs, he passes by shops and he thinks…

 

    He thinks about Crowley too much. No, just enough.

 

    He thinks about Crowley just enough, because he loves him. Because he is, in fact, in love with him, because he is happy to be in love with him. Because he thinks about a film with two people who weren’t meant to be together and who discovered that despite their differing outsides, they were very much the same, and he thinks about how Crowley had held his hand as they’d discussed it. After fifty years, they’d actually talked about it, and now he wonders… if they don’t see the same thing, do they see something very close?

 

    He doesn’t know. That’s the thing, they already _have_ struck out on their own. They’ve done it, this is it, their happily ever after. And they can have that, and acknowledge it, and love each other, and not be in a romance. They _are_ , they _do_ , they’re… not. They needn’t be. He doesn’t want to change things… not unless he were sure Crowley wanted to change things.

 

    He buys him a little leather box, red, embossed with gold. In another city, in a secondhand shop he’s combing for books, he finds a bracelet, braided black leather with a clasp fashioned in the shape of a snake’s head. An ouroboros. It’s the sort of vintage cool that fits Crowley’s style, when he leans away from hip young professional and towards rock and roll. And it’s something to put in the box.

 

    He also does find a couple of books, carefully bears souvenirs back to London to install the books in his shop and to arrange a manicure before returning home.

 

    _Back in England, home tomorrow_. He texts. _Text me if you want me to pick you up something from London_.

 

    _Those dark chocolate pralines we like?_ Crowley replies. _I’ve got a bottle of wine picked out for your return_.

 

    Aziraphale stops into his old club to cheer on trivia night. Finn, his favorite young bartender-- if he admits to favorites-- brings him his wine when he’s not busy hosting the trivia.

 

    “You never do play.” He remarks.

 

    “It wouldn’t be fair, dear, I know too much.” Aziraphale smiles.

 

    “Is your young man not with you tonight, Mr. Fell?”

 

    “Anthony? He’s a very dear friend, we-- we aren’t… He is most definitely not my young man.”

 

    “Aren’t you?” An eyebrow is arched. “I’ve never seen him here except with you, and he’s _awfully_ cozy.”

 

    “He’s awfully dear. But a _friend_.”

 

    “You’re really not with him? I wouldn’t let him go, then-- if you don’t mind me saying.” Finn pats his hand. “Been to see Jas today?”

 

    “She’s fit me in for the morning, so I’m staying in town overnight.”

 

    “And then hurrying home, to a man you won’t even sleep with…” He shakes his head. “Mr. Fell, I know men like you, and please don’t mind my saying, but you’re not too old for love, and the world’s a different place than it was. And if that young man’s gone and bought a house with you, and if he goes to quiet pubs that aren’t his scene for you, and if he takes you out to meals and buys you things and dotes on you, maybe you ought to let him do a few other things for you besides, because he clearly wants to.”

 

    “I don’t know. Oh-- it’s not age that bothers me, although I am… quite a bit older than you’d guess. But Anthony’s older than he looks, it’s not that I worry he-- He flirts and jokes, but he’s not a very sexual person.”

 

    “You’ve already been not having sex, what would you be losing, exactly?”

 

    “I don’t know.” Aziraphale’s brow furrows slightly. “I don’t know. Thank you, dear, I shall think about that. I shall… I shall consider your perspective. You do have some experience with such things.”

 

    “A good barman is a devout student of the human condition.” Finn smirks. “You really… All over each other like you always are when you come here, and you’ve never?”

 

    “I’ve kissed his forehead.” Aziraphale shrugs, feeling suddenly sheepish.

 

    “Good heavens, Mr. Fell, that boy throws himself at you and his _forehead_. A lesser man might have given up on you by now!”

 

    “It’s-- That is-- Well.” He flushes. “If he were to throw himself at me, in a state of sobriety, then… perhaps I might-- might amend that.”

 

    “Yes, I should hope so. That poor man, setting his cap on _you_. Let him make you happy, if anyone deserves to be looked after, it’s you.”

 

    “Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale nods, and lets him go. It’s… it is a lot to think about. Were there things about Crowley he didn’t notice? Is he too close to see them? Is he too blind by his own thoughts and feelings to fully see that Crowley might want more, might be just as hesitant to ask for it?

 

    Well, they have time to figure it out. Now, though, he’ll try not to dismiss the possibility out of hand. If there are things Crowley wants from him, he wants to give them.

 

    He spends the night reading, in his flat above the shop, and then in the morning he gets his manicure and picks up Crowley’s chocolates-- and what would Finn and the others have to say about that, he wonders-- and then it’s no time at all to fly home. He touches down in the empty grass along the side of the house-- a fine spot for a garden come spring, he knows Crowley’s considering the possibilities-- and he hurries in, finding him in the kitchen tending to his herbs.

 

    They don’t really use the herbs much as they don’t cook, but the aroma is very nice. He does hold out some hope that once he takes the cookery class, he will do.

 

    Crowley lights up, greeting him with an open arm, a half-embrace.

 

    “Hullo, angel.” He breathes him in deep. “Welcome home.”

 

    “ _Home_.” Aziraphale sighs, leaning in. “It’s good to be home. I’ve brought you your chocolates.”

 

    “Our chocolates, I certainly won’t eat them all. I could do us a pasta tonight… with some salad, if you like.”

 

    “Sounds wonderful.” He sets the package of pralines on the counter, and then reaches into the pocket with the little box, dithering a moment and then presenting it. “A little souvenir. Actually, the box is a much nicer souvenir than the contents, but-- well, I still thought of you.”

 

    “It’s lovely. You shouldn’t have.”

 

    “I thought of you.” He shrugs. “I thought of you a lot, while I was away, in fact.”

 

    Crowley isn’t sure what to say. He’s less sure still, when he opens the box. It’s definitely him, and he already plans on keeping it in the glass-topped uppermost drawer of his accessory dresser. There is, technically speaking, not physical space in his suite for his very boutique-y walk in closet to exist, but he’d wanted it, and so there it is.

 

    The top drawer is home to only his very favorite things, and little things from Aziraphale tend to be his very favorites.

 

    “I thought of you, too.” He says at last. “Thanks, it’s perfect, I mean.”

 

    “Oh, good.” Aziraphale smiles.

 

    “Here-- help me with the clasp?” Crowley holds his wrist out, breathless as Aziraphale does. The bracelet settles on him, half-hidden by his shirt cuff. “Yeah. Perfect.”


	8. Chapter 8

    Aziraphale doesn’t make any moves, but he pays attention now, he doesn’t dismiss the idea out of hand the way he once did. He used to try to cushion himself from hurt, and he wasn’t always very fair to Crowley… it would have been too much, too frightening, once upon a time, if he had been open to the idea that Crowley was _capable_ of loving him, of being in love with him. If he were capable of it, and then did not love Aziraphale just as Aziraphale loved him, the hurt of it… But he has come to accept that Crowley loves him and that the how is not important, and now he’s beginning to accept that the how might be important indeed.

 

    Crowley’s made him dinner, his first night back, despite being no more of a cook than Aziraphale is himself. Crowley’s greeted him home with hugs, and with an evening spent cuddled on the sofa just chatting. Crowley…

 

    Crowley could love him, just as he loves Crowley. In all ways.

 

    A year ago, the prospect might have been frightening. A decade ago, unthinkable. A hundred years ago, he’d have laughed-- well, and a hundred years ago, he remembers he was somewhat put out with Crowley’s being thoughtless, he’d never have believed it possible Crowley should love him then. There was a time he wasn’t sure Crowley was capable of any kind of love, and for thousands of years after, he couldn’t admit that it was so… But now? He must be sure, of course, he mustn’t make any advances that could spoil their happiness, and he is happy. And if it is possible for the both of them to share an even greater happiness, he is not afraid, only cautious. Only careful. Don’t they deserve care?

 

    Saturday afternoon, Crowley drives him to his cookery class, following him in-- Aziraphale offers to pay for him to join, but when it becomes clear that he really only plans on pestering Aziraphale in his kitchen, the instructor says there’s no need.

 

    “You’re the oldest student in this class.” Crowley nudges him, looking around at the other student kitchens. A couple of bachelors of varying ages, a probable divorce of forty or so, four young persons of an age to be striking out on their own for the first time, who are in pairs of two to work together… but then, even if there’d been students who _looked_ older than he does, well...

 

    “Of _course_ I am.” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly.”

 

    There’s a bit of chat to start, introductions and what-do-you-want-to-get-out-of-this-class, and Aziraphale fidgets a bit when it gets to him, in his little kitchen in the back.

 

    “Well… I’ve always gone out, or just done sandwiches or boiled an egg… nothing very, erm-- I just never bothered to learn, really.” He says. It’s not like he can explain that he’s never needed to know how, though he supposes he looks the right age and sex to say as much. “And my old flat had a cramped little kitchenette, it wasn’t really a joy to use. But now Anthony and I have the cottage, and it’s such a lovely kitchen and his herbs are really beginning to come in nicely, I’d just like to be able to cook for us.”

 

    Crowley leans against the countertop and smiles at him. “And I’m just here to put out the fires and stop the bleeding.”

 

    “Oh, hush, you wicked thing.” He says, failing to suppress a smile. He nearly points out that Crowley is not in the business of putting the fires _out_ , when he remembers his coming into the library in the middle of the night, woken from a nightmare, and he keeps his mouth shut.

 

    Crowley just grins wider.

 

    They’re starting with cottage pie, the instructor promises them all it’s really quite simple. He doesn’t have any trouble with peeling and dicing the carrot, except for Crowley reaching in to snag one of the pieces and pop it into his mouth.

 

    “Behave.” He smacks at his retreating hand, only for Crowley to smack at him in return once he’s chewing on the carrot-- and not his hand, either. “ _Behave_.”

 

    “You knew what I was when you invited me.” Crowley grins, pulling out his phone. “Smile, angel. Day one of cookery class, so far, so good.”

 

    “Yes, well, we’ve barely started yet.” Aziraphale chuckles. “I’ve got to get everything mise en place, dear, what’s my instruction sheet say?”

 

    “Along with the carrots, you’re peeling and dicing the potatoes and the onion.” Crowley reads off the sheet, still recording him for Instagram. “Then when you’ve got those ready you’ll start browning the meat, and-- oh, oh angel, _no_.”

 

    “What?”

 

    “I don’t know what you think you’re doing to that poor onion but that’s absolutely not right. You need to stop before you hurt yourself. Give it here.” He stops recording and pockets his phone, giving his hands a quick wash before demanding the onion in earnest. “You do the potatoes, I don’t think you can bollocks up potatoes, but for somebody’s sake-- for _my_ sake, if not your own-- don’t attempt whatever you thought you were doing with this onion ever again.”

 

    “That wasn’t right?”

 

    “Certainly wasn’t.” Crowley deals with the onion, keeping a wary eye on Aziraphale’s potato peeling just in case. “See how everyone else has done? Like so.”

 

    The instructor reaches their kitchen, smiling at them. “Oh, he’s put you to work, has he?”

 

    “Put myself to work, to keep him hurting himself, more like.” Crowley huffs.

 

    “I might have made a bit of a mess, but I wasn’t going to hurt myself.”

 

    “What you did to this onion was a crime, angel.”

 

    “All right, well, you’re underway, are you feeling good so far? Looks like you’ve got some basic knife skills.”

 

    “Yeah, cutting things up we can manage. Done crudite platters and whatnot, haven’t we? The peeler wants to get away from him, but we’re all right.” Crowley teases a little, but his smile is warm.

 

    “The peeler and I are getting on just fine, and the potatoes couldn’t be better.”

 

    “All right, well, you just wave me down if you need help with anything. Just be sure and keep those knife cuts even.”

 

    Aziraphale nearly stops her to ask about working the oven, but stops himself. That sounds a bit too hapless, he thinks. Surely if he turns the knob to the temperature indicated on his instruction sheet, it will just… work. That’s how most things work.

 

    He just doesn’t want to mess something up and set the kitchen on fire… and before the oven, he’s got to master the stove.

 

    Not scary. Not dangerous. You just turn the knob like on anything else and it does what it’s supposed to. Just like at home.

 

    He takes the knife from Crowley, once the potatoes are peeled and the onion diced, and gets those cut up as well. Gets everything set and waiting. Gets the oven preheating, which he doesn’t quite understand, but it’s what the instruction sheet says, and so he doesn’t think there’s any reason to bother the instructor over it. Once everyone has their ingredients prepped and set in place, she walks them through the actual cooking, from the kitchen at the front of the room, and he’s still got the sheet for if he misses anything she says, or if he has trouble seeing from the back, but he finds it pretty simple to follow along with browning the meat. He frets over it a bit, but not more than he thinks is usual for a beginning cook.

 

    “Starting to smell like food.” Crowley reports, filming him again as he adds the broth and tomato paste to his pan of meat, the veg and herbs already mixed in. “Our chef hard at work, as you can see… what’s on the menu?”

 

    “You know very well it’s cottage pie-- are you filming me? Is this video?”

 

    “Say hullo to my followers, angel.”

 

    “Honestly, Crowley…” He blushes, turning away from the camera and focusing on his pan.

 

    “He’s shy.” Crowley grins, leaning in closer. “Isn’t that adorable?”

 

    _Adorable_. Did Crowley really think he was adorable? Did he really… out of a personal fondness? Out of _love_? Now that the possibility is there, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

 

    “I am trying to _work_ , you know. I’ve got to pay attention.”

 

    Crowley pockets his phone, falling silent-- though as Aziraphale follows along through the rest of the recipe, fixing the mashed potatoes, assembling the dish, he does snap a few more still pictures to add to his story. He throws in one of himself lounging against the counter, Aziraphale bending to put the cottage pie in the oven in the background.

 

    The instructor makes the rounds again to check on everyone, and they all settle in at the tables to wait and to chat.

 

    The young kids gravitate to their table, introducing themselves first to Crowley-- a reminder that to them, he seems only a few years older. Well, one of them does all the introducing, the smaller boy. Crowley winds up learning that the four are studying online while living here, and that one of the ones he’d have pegged as a girl isn’t-- at which point Aziraphale rattles off a bit of trivia about how many genders they had in some part of the ancient world.

 

    “Really?” All four of them turn to him, eyes wide.

 

    “Er, well… as I recall.” He nods.

 

    “That’s cool. How do you know about that?”

 

    Aziraphale looks over to Crowley. Crowley shrugs.

 

    “I read a lot, I suppose.” He answers weakly. Can’t exactly say ‘I was there’...

 

    “He’s always reading.” Crowley nods. “Reads about everything.”

 

    At this point, all four of them have a hundred questions between them, about queer history. Which… well, no surprise they’ve got Aziraphale pegged as a man who’d know, but he doesn’t like the way they all moon over him. Not that he’s _jealous_ , he wouldn’t ever admit to being jealous of a bunch of kids, even less than he’d admit to being jealous over a pet snake-- well, all right, he’d walked right into that one-- but he sees the way one boy in particular lights up a little. Oh yes, he knows a good thing when he sees one, he’s taken in Aziraphale, with his apron and his rolled-up shirtsleeves showing off the kind of forearms capable of a powerful yet tender hug, with his cozy wool sleeveless jumper just riding up in the back enough to show his braces fixed to the buttons on his trousers… he’s looked at the flustered little smile, the soft, well-manicured hands, the comfy-looking lap, and he’d known exactly how good a thing. Well, not exactly, because he doesn’t know Aziraphale is a literal angel, let alone one who’d been prepared to give everything to save the world, but… Well, but he knows a soft, cozy, sexy man when he sees one.

 

    Too young to be looking at men Aziraphale’s age-- er, his apparent age-- but Crowley can’t quite blame him, the idea of being attracted to someone as unbelievably young as a boy of eighteen or nineteen is repulsive. What would you do with one? The idea of being attracted to someone as young as Crowley looks, five to ten years this boy’s senior, still sounds ludicrous and distasteful, even if he’s well aware that plenty of humans are attracted to him at his own apparent age. Then again, Crowley’s never actually been attracted to a being younger than himself… so it’s not as if he’d look at an actual fifty-something year old mortal and be interested.

 

    “ _Angel_ …” He whines, because Aziraphale might not be _his_ , but he certainly isn’t available, either. “You’re meant to be talking to _me_ …”

 

    “Am I?” Aziraphale turns to him, amused, cutting his rambling discussion of Queer Topics In The Bible short. “I talk to you all the time at home. I suppose you’re jealous _now_ , too?”

 

    “Of course not.”

 

    “It’s twenty-five minutes of me talking to other people. Don’t you have your phone to keep you occupied?”

 

    “But I want _you_ to keep me occupied.”

 

    “Mm-hm.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. It’s a very ‘I know you’re up to something but I’ve no idea what’ sort of look that he gives him. “No, no, _clearly_ I’m not paying enough attention to you, that’s not _responsible pet ownership_ , is it?”

 

    The urge to complain about the teasing is strong, to preserve his dignity, but he pushes it down, putting on a winning pout instead. “No, it isn’t. You invited me to come along, that makes you responsible for me.”

 

    “Well, _you_ hardly need to listen to me lecture…”

 

    “No, but I like to, anyway, sometimes.”

 

    Crowley doesn’t feel a bit guilty for giving the wrong impression, either. Anyway, saves the kid the embarrassment of coming onto Aziraphale… no way that’d end well even if he wasn’t barely coming up on twenty at most and trying to pick up on an immortal being older than the planet by an indeterminable length of time.

 

    “Are you new in town?” One of the kids turns back to Crowley, at least, instead of all zeroing in on Aziraphale.

 

    “Yeah. Well, sort of. To the area.”

 

    “My, erm… my _friend_ and I recently moved into a little cottage outside town.” Aziraphale nods. He doesn’t mean to stress ‘friend’ so much, only it comes out that way when he thinks about the fact that so many people had got the wrong idea about them. “Not very far.”

 

    “So what do you even _do_ all the way out here?”

 

    “Oh, I’ve got to travel sometimes for work. Acquisitions. It’s deadly dull most of the time and my boss is literally Satan.” Crowley says, grinning when Aziraphale shoots him a look of mild disapproval. “He sells rare books, when it can’t be avoided.”

 

    “Yes, the trade’s mostly online nowadays. Which leaves me plenty of spare time… so I may as well pick up some useful skills. This one, of course, has his greenhouse.”

 

    “Really? Wow. That’s so cool.”

 

    “It is pretty cool.” Crowley agrees, leaning out of his chair to drape himself over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Nice all year ‘round and all.”

 

    “What do you grow?”

 

    “Oh, I grow everything. I’m going to put in a vegetable garden outside come spring-- and someone’s promised me a fruit tree.” He smiles, turning towards Aziraphale. As proprietary as he thinks is about right for a supposedly young man in his position. A position it feels strange to be in still, when he’s used to escorting Aziraphale about and treating him, but… he could enjoy playing the role.

 

    “As many fruit trees as you like, dear. As many as we’ve room for.” Aziraphale reaches up to pat his arm. It feels so nice to have Crowley leaning on him here, the way he might at home-- for all that he’d been upset about people mistaking them for a couple at first, and for all that he’d been certain it was Aziraphale’s fault more than his, it’s nice he hasn’t pulled back. And it’s possible, isn’t it, that he wishes they were? That perhaps it’s only that it’s painful to be reminded of the fact that they aren’t?

 

    Well, he doesn’t pretend to know. But it’s _possible_.

 

    “What else is there to do around here?” Crowley asks. “Everything’s so quiet compared to London.”

 

    A couple of the kids light up at the mere mention of an actual city. All four fall over themselves to list every possible amusement in the area, none of which would appeal to the sort of human Crowley pretended to be back in London, before… but he rather likes the thought of being a different sort of human now, some of the time. They change, after all. He needn’t give up all his cool just because he’s now the sort of human who likes living in the countryside and tending to his greenhouse and who would, in fact, if asked, quite fancy going to the next village fete on his housemate’s arm.

 

    They also ask about what London is like, and Aziraphale keeps shushing him from telling any of the really interesting parts, attention split between something on his own phone and his attempts at putting forth London’s most educational side, but it seems like the not-so-interesting things are interesting enough for this crowd.

 

    The timer goes off and Aziraphale and two of the young persons all leave the table to go and pull their dishes from the oven.

 

    “Where do you get one of those?” The smaller boy asks Crowley, with a meaningful look towards Aziraphale.

 

    “Paradise.”

 

    “Is that like a gay club? Like in London?”

 

    “No.” He chuckles, and produces a card-- one which had not previously existed, but which bears all the necessary information for a nice, quiet pub on Portland Place. “But here’s a good start if you like the type and you find yourself in London. ‘Scuse me.”

 

    He moves to join Aziraphale in waiting for the instructor-- he takes a picture of the finished product, before and after Aziraphale has dished out a portion to be tasted and critiqued.

 

    “Smells amazing.” He leans against Aziraphale’s back, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re going to do fine.”

 

    “Do you think?” Aziraphale frets.

 

    “Of course I do. Mouth’s watering as we speak.”

 

    He gives Aziraphale a quick, fortifying pat, as he straightens up and stops leaning on him at the instructor’s approach.

 

    “I do hope it’s all right.” He wrings his hands a bit.

 

    “Well… you’ll have some and see how you feel about that salt and pepper to taste-- I think you might have gone a bit under, but if you’re satisfied, that’s fine. Everything’s done right-- you’ve followed directions well. You’ll pick up the knack for the rest the more you do all the steps.”

 

    He keeps a nervous smile, nodding as she moves on, and then sagging a bit against Crowley.

 

    “Underseasoned.” He sighs.

 

    “I’ll be the judge of that.” Crowley tuts. “Come on, serve me up a plate.”

 

    “If she thought it was underseasoned, you will.”

 

    Crowley leans against the counter and merely opens his mouth wide, and Aziraphale dishes out a plate, blowing on the first bite to cool it before feeding it to him.

 

    “Mm… mm, might play with the herbs and spices a bit, but I think the salt and pepper’s right.” He nods. “That’s the ‘to taste’ part, anyway. I’d maybe say… shallots? And nutmeg. Not a lot, but a touch.”

 

    “Nutmeg? Do you think? With a tomato based sauce? I could see it with a white sauce…”

 

    “Yeah, just a little hit of it. Or if you don’t fancy nutmeg, dunno… maybe paprika? Dunno. But it’s good, you definitely didn’t short me on salt and pepper.”

 

    Aziraphale takes a forkful for himself, with a satisfied hum. He wouldn’t mind letting Crowley suggest alterations to seasoning, perhaps looking at differing recipes and seeing what other cooks went with, but it certainly feels like comfort food. He carries their plate to the table, where he winds up feeding Crowley another bite, and then a third. There’s nothing he can really do but acquiesce, when Crowley leans forward across the table on his elbows and opens his mouth expectantly, unable to keep from smiling entirely.

 

    He doesn’t think anything of sharing a fork, just as he doesn’t think anything of feeding Crowley. Somewhere along the line it became something they did. It had begun with odd tastes from one plate to another, and then it was something they might do when drunk and playful, and then it became an intimacy for at home, a way of reaffirming their being on the same team in everything, of expressing some care in a way that was just _theirs_ , and then all of a sudden it was their new normal, and he can’t think of it as anything other than what it is. Them, sharing, like they’ve begun sharing everything.

 

    “Really like the texture on the potatoes.” Crowley adds, taking the fork from him at last to feed him another bite. “ _Divine_.”

 

    Aziraphale communicates a humble ‘oh, you’ rather well for having his mouth full, and Crowley grins and readies another bite.

 

    “You going to make this for me at home now? Whenever I ask for it?”

 

    “Mm-- yes, if you like. It’s not your usual tastes, I know, but if you like it, I’ll make it. Any time.”

 

    “Thank you, angel.” Crowley smiles, and it would be easier… it would be easier if he could see his eyes, and maybe he’d know what he’s thinking at times like this, if the warmth in them verged on love…

 

    But they’ll feed each other at home, he remembers, and Crowley rarely wears his sunglasses around the house. And maybe then he’d see what he thinks he’s looking for.

 

    He takes a picture of the decimated dish of cottage pie, before Crowley packs the leftovers away into a tupperware container he hadn’t had with him when they’d come in, proudly posting it-- ‘The result of my first cookery lesson-- after my dear friend @AJCrowley and I have had at it. Not very pretty, but it turned out well!’

 

    “I’m going to pull the car ‘round front, angel, meet you in a minute.” Crowley leans in, hand on his elbow, stopping just short of kissing his cheek. “Finish up whatever you need to. It’s just started to rain and I might as well get there before it gets any worse.”

 

    “Just the washing-up to do and I can meet you.”

 

    “Oh, should I--?”

 

    “No, you go on, just take your time about it.” Aziraphale pats his arm in return. “See you in just a bit.”

 

    “No, you cooked--”

 

    “Go on, then, I did sign up for the class. Besides, I’ve got an apron and you haven’t, so go _on_. Pull the car around and save me the walk in the rain-- and here, take my umbrella.”

 

    They hadn’t had that, either, when they’d come in, but he produces one anyway, and does kiss Crowley’s cheek, without thinking about it.

 

    “Well, all right, if you insist. I’ll do the washing up at home, then. Or next time.”

 

    “Or next time.” He smiles. He likes that thought, next time. Crowley joining him again, scrubbing out a baking dish while he stands by with a towel, both of them in aprons… and there’s no reason Crowley couldn’t produce an extra like the ones the class wears, nor any reason he couldn’t have handed his own over, but he doesn’t mind washing up while Crowley fetches the car.

 

    He doesn’t mind the kiss, under the circumstances-- the circumstances being, it lets the local queer youth brigade know his angel is definitively off-limits-- and besides that, it’s nice. Soft and familiar, as if they’d always done. Well… there had been times when they had, in public as a greeting, when that was the done thing, but…

 

    But this wasn’t like that, this had been personal. The way you kiss someone who has been dear to you so long you can hardly think why you wouldn’t do.

 

    Crowley reaches the Bentley, putting the tupperware container with their leftover helping of cottage pie in the boot, along with the umbrella, drying himself off with a gesture as he climbs into the driver’s seat. He pulls his phone out to give Aziraphale a bit of time to finish with the washing up, checking his notifications in a couple of apps-- nothing on the social media apps he feels he ought to be behind in principle but can’t be arsed to use much, but some on Instagram.

 

    ‘Oh’, someone had commented, on the picture of he and Aziraphale together in the greenhouse. ‘I see, @FellBooks is Daddy’, and Crowley’s blood manages to run even colder.

 

    Bad enough they should mischaracterize the relationship so badly, he thinks, but to tag Aziraphale, it--

 

    Oh. Oh no. Aziraphale had already responded.

 

    ‘Oh no, he’s just a very very close friend, I’m certainly not his Father (angel emoji)’, Crowley can feel the life leaving his body. Aziraphale’s discorporated him with one poorly-considered reply. And five people after that who’ve had to jump in to call him ‘Daddy’, plus one very insistent ‘100% Daddy’ with some rather suggestive emojis.

 

    It really isn’t fair. Crowley drives the car, his car. Crowley opens doors and pushes in chairs. Crowley insists upon expensive gifts like the suit. Crowley pays for meals and sometimes even does the ordering for Aziraphale! All Aziraphale’s done is wear a more aged face and a respectable but un-hip wardrobe!

 

    Granted, he can dote with the best of them, and fuss and indulge and make his too-innocent jokes about responsible pet ownership. True, his more aged face is certainly handsome, and his lap is an irresistible perch. Even so, that doesn’t make him ‘Daddy’. Not more than Crowley is! Either they both are, or no one is, that’s their deal! As much as he’d like to be recognized for the top energy he thinks he does put out, after some thought he’s got to admit it’s both or neither. In different spheres, in different ways, they both…

 

    They form natural patterns, give and take. Crowley is attentive on days out, Aziraphale naturally indulgent at home… They offer each other arms, they buy each other gifts… Crowley drives and pays for meals, Aziraphale’s taken up a cookery course out of a desire to feed them at home…

 

    They should be lovers. He doesn’t know how to bring up the topic, when they’ve been not-lovers for so long. Maybe he missed his chance when he’d acted like the idea was an absurd thing for people to believe of them.

 

    He pulls the car around, waiting for Aziraphale-- hopping out to hold the umbrella for him, to open his door. He catches the warm smile the instructor flashes them in passing, approving of his attentiveness-- and a less-flattering look from one of the single men in the course, that has him offering a hand as well just because he can. He’ll show up every week and play the spoiled young boyfriend if it’ll piss some sad bugger off to see it. Keep his disapproving looks off of the kids, he supposes.

 

    Aziraphale cheerily bids a good evening to everyone, paused under the umbrella with his hand in Crowley’s.

 

    “Evening.” The sad bugger replies, voice tight. And then. “Nice car.”

 

    “I wouldn’t know anything about the car, I’m afraid, it’s Anthony’s.”

 

    “Been in the Crowley family since she rolled off the production line.” Crowley adds, which is close enough to true, and he doesn’t mind playing a spoiled young boyfriend, but his car is his car and there will be no mistakes about that. “Thanks. You have a good one.” And then, again, because he can, because he knows it won’t bother him one bit or give him a moment’s pause after earlier, he kisses Aziraphale’s cheek. “Hop in, angel, chariot’s been waiting long enough.”

 

    “Oh-- thank you, dear.” Aziraphale smiles at him, so bright and warm and sunny that Crowley’s surprised the rain dares still come down on them. “You’re too kind.”

 

    “Not at all, and don’t go spreading it around that I am.” He grins, basking in the look he receives in return.


	9. Chapter 9

    Crowley enjoys sitting in on Aziraphale’s classes, documenting his struggles and successes with cauliflower cheese and toad in the hole, quietly playing up the boyfriend role. They don’t talk about it, Aziraphale never accuses him of doing so, but he leans on him and holds his hand and insists upon being fed his tastes before lavishing praise. The kids work together in a different combination each week, and each week they gravitate to them, eagerly soaking up Aziraphale’s praise and encouragement on their own efforts, listening to his stories.

 

    Pastry crust, as it turns out, is not Aziraphale’s specialty. Breakfast, as it turns out, is.

 

    It’s nice. Maybe it would be nicer if it was all real, the couple thing, but Crowley’s got no idea how to bring it up…

 

    And then, Aziraphale _does_ ask him to the village’s little harvest festival.

 

    “Just if you’d like to go.” He says, wringing his hands. “I thought we might. Walk around, see the sights. Look at the prize winning vegetables.”

 

    “I’ll have my vegetable garden going by next fall, you know… might enter something. No cheating, no powers! What do you think?”

 

    “You’d be ready to enter something for the summer, I’d think, for the big fete. Just a shame we missed this year’s. But it’s nice they do something for fall.”

 

    “Sure. I, ah… I always wanted to go to this sort of thing. But the-- You know. They’d hold the big one in town in the abbey, so… could never go. I like harvest festivals. Delightfully pagan.”

 

    “Oh, hush. There is nothing inherently pagan about wanting to celebrate having enough food to eat. So we’ll go?” And he looks so _hopeful_ , so _pleased_ , that something flares up in Crowley’s chest in answer.

 

    “I’ll drive, if you’ll escort me around to all the prize winning vegetables once we’re there.”

 

    “It would be my absolute pleasure.” Aziraphale nods, with that grin, that sweet and excited grin that makes Crowley’s heart skip a beat. “Tomorrow?”

 

    “We’ll make a day of it.”

 

    They do their separate things, after that-- which, in Crowley’s case, is sleep, and in Aziraphale’s case, is to fret over tomorrow’s outfit for several hours. Certainly he’s cared about his appearance if he was dressing for an event, he likes to look well-dressed, though he doesn’t ordinarily go in for anything flashy, not unless he was going someplace where dressing modestly would put him out of place. His appearance is carefully crafted, just as his identity on earth is carefully crafted. He puts thought into his outfits any day he imagines he might be seen by people, but…

 

    It isn’t a _date_. Neither he nor Crowley had said ‘date’. An outing together, like they so often do! Certainly no more datelike than other days they’ve had. But he’d been so nervous asking him for some reason… he’d felt so…

 

    And it was silly to be! He didn’t really doubt Crowley’s answer. And even if he’d not wanted to go, he’d not have been mean about it, but he hadn’t believed he wouldn’t like to go. And yet… he hasn’t asked him out someplace other than just to come along to his classes, since he’d begun thinking about whether or not they might have a romance between them, whether it was possible. Now, so many things between them are as ever, comfortable, normal. But this… it’s got him nervous. He wants to impress.

 

    He selects his best casual tweed jacket, a gold houndstooth with just a touch of deep blue, with the leather patches, the pewter buttons. The fair isle sleeveless jumper, a crisp white shirt, and-- remembering Crowley’s past fashion advice, he opts for no tie, though it feels vaguely scandalous. His previously nice corduroy trousers are no longer so nice, he’d bought another pair when they’d started wearing out, but he doesn’t like them as much…

 

    The fair isle, he decides, does not go with the tweed at all, which means it doesn’t matter if the olive corduroys go with either, but the tweed will go with his cufflinks, so he keeps that, keeps the shirt. He used to have a waistcoat that went with the tweed, had it finally given up the ghost? Do any of his sleeveless jumpers go? The navy argyle, but he’d worn that out with Crowley before since they’d moved…

 

    He’s being ridiculous, he knows. Crowley certainly won’t care about that. But he just wants everything to be special, he wants everything to be _perfect_. In the end, he decides the golds aren’t the same, trades the white shirt for a blue one so that he can wear the cream-colored cable knit, but he remains firm on the decision to go without a tie. He will, he tells himself, leave his collar unbuttoned. Just in case that might be _alluring_.

 

    An ordinary pair of good khaki trousers will do, and he doesn’t think he’ll need his coat, but he thinks perhaps a hat. His usual he doesn’t think will go, and he fears the velour tyrolean hat may be too silly. Appropriate for a harvest festival, yes, but not… Not alluring, definitely. But his other hats are all either unseasonable, too formal, or the wrong color…

 

    He heads down to his library to keep himself going crazy over it, and reads until morning, when he goes up and dresses in all but his jacket, and then makes breakfast for the two of them. Crowley slithers into his seat at the kitchen table in jeans and a black roll-neck sweater. It fits him like a glove, but then, of course it would.

 

    “I’ve made you an egg and some toast. And a coffee.” He sets plate and mug both down before Crowley, smiling indulgently at the way he perks up at the aroma.

 

    “You’re too good to me.” Crowley smiles up warmly at him in return, hands wrapping around the mug and soaking up the heat first, tongue flicking out over the steam.

 

    “Mm, yes, I am a bit, aren’t I?” He ruffles Crowley’s hair, before going to get his own breakfast, his whole morning feels brightened by the tongue playfully stuck out at him, which he catches sight of before his back is turned.

 

    It’s a quiet morning, though there’s an energy to it, an anticipation. They don’t feel much need for words over breakfast. After, Aziraphale dons his tweed and Crowley a burgundy blazer and his white silk scarf, and Crowley stops him with a hand.

 

    “Buttonhole? Getting myself one.”

 

    “That would be lovely, dear. I’m just trying to decide if I need a hat… I haven’t got one that goes, I’m afraid-- if the tyrolean is too silly, I mean. It is, isn’t it?”

 

    “The tyrolean’s a bit silly. I’ll have a look at you in a minute.” Crowley promises, before disappearing into his greenhouse. When he returns, he’s bearing a green carnation for Aziraphale-- and wearing one himself.

 

    It doesn’t really _go_ , not with his outfit. It goes with Aziraphale.

 

    “Thank you.” He whispers, holding still for Crowley as he fixes it in place.

 

    “Don’t thank me yet.” Crowley grins, and with a wave of his hand, he produces a flat cap in the same tweed as Aziraphale’s jacket. He sets it on his head with a flourish. “There.”

 

    “Oh-- oh, _thank you_ , dear.”

 

    “I know you like things proper made and all, but… some days you just have to improvise. What else?”

 

    “Nothing else for me.”

 

    Crowley takes in his open collar, the lack of tie, and something in his expression shifts, impossible to catalog.

 

    “Good. I mean-- you look perfect, wouldn’t change a thing.” He coughs, shifting to take Aziraphale’s arm.

 

    “And you, dear. Very dapper. Did you need a photograph of the outfit, or by the car?”

 

    “We’ll get pictures once we’re there, I imagine.” He takes Aziraphale’s arm-- and it does feel different, to take his arm, than it does to offer his own. Normally when they go out, he offers-- and sometimes he doesn’t, but Aziraphale takes it anyway. This… it’s nice as well, just different.

 

    When he’s on Aziraphale’s arm, he feels _safe_. Aziraphale is stalwart and sturdy, and warm. When they separate at the Bentley, he finds he wants to be on his arm again. To be the one being paraded about and shown off this time. He might as well, he’s played the role up enough now in Aziraphale’s class that there’s no escaping it here. He can always do the doting when they go back up to London… or when they go to the other little town to their cafe there.

 

    When they arrive, Aziraphale buys a bag of duck feed-- for a good cause, he insists, the conservancy fund!-- and they start by taking the meandering little path past the festival proper and down to the pond, Crowley back on his arm. They take pictures there-- Aziraphale takes one of his outfit, he takes one of the both of them. They each get the other feeding the ducks.

 

    Crowley does some posting while Aziraphale focuses on capturing the landscape-- ‘#OOTD Been invited to the harvest festival!’, and ‘@FellBooks is the one who insisted on feeding the ducks first’, and ‘Here you see him in his natural habitat, being kind to the waterfowl’.

 

    Arm in arm, they take the rest of the the looping walk that returns them to the green and the festival. Crowley takes a long time inspecting this year’s prize vegetables, humming to himself over the level of competition.

 

    “What do you think, dear?”

 

    “Oh, won’t be competing for size on gourds next year, but if I get some good aubergines late into the season… I know I could place. Maybe a romanesco.”

 

    “Oh, it would be so lovely just to have those growing…” Aziraphale agrees, his tone almost wistfully soft.

 

    “Think you could turn romanesco into a cauliflower cheese?”

 

    “Oh, they’re so pretty, though.”

 

    “Useless if you don’t eat them eventually.”

 

    “Well, I’m sure I could do, then, dear.” He pats Crowley’s hand. “It certainly will be nice, won’t it? You’ll bring in things from the garden and I’ll cook…”

 

    His sigh is dreamy, and Crowley leans in against him with a little hum.

 

    “It’ll be paradise.” He whispers.

 

    “Oh--” Aziraphale turns to him, and then quickly back to the very large pumpkin they’ve stopped in front of. “Crowley? Are you-- Are you very happy with things here? And with-- with everything?”

 

    “Of _course_ I am.” He squeezes Aziraphale’s arm tight. “Everything here’s _perfect_ , I’m… I’ve never been so happy, of course I am. And you?”

 

    “Oh, yes. Very. I’m very happy. I’m happy we came. Happy you agreed to come with me. I don’t think I’d be-- alone, I mean, I-- Well. Well.”

 

    “I’m happy you asked me. Come on… tea break?”

 

    “Oh, yes, let’s. My treat, I invited you this time.”

 

    The tea is to the other side of the local honey, where Crowley stops them so that they can sample it. He takes a business card, after watching the bliss spread across Aziraphale’s face. It would be an easy drive some afternoon to pick up the good local stuff…

 

    “Hi, Anthony! Mr. Fell!” The kids from the cookery class all chorus, more or less, from the tea tent, waving them down at their approach.

 

    “Well, hello!” Aziraphale greets them brightly. “Are you getting into the swing of your online courses?”

 

    They all dutifully report that they are, and then they’ve got their customary dozen questions about things, and Crowley is merciful enough to allow Aziraphale to finish answering them, before he tugs at his arm and affects a winning pout.

 

    “Angel, tea?”

 

    “Oh-- of course. We’ll be right back, dears, if you had anything else… I did promise this one a cuppa.”

 

    The youths nod and wave them off, and Crowley detaches from Aziraphale’s arm only to allow him to buy them each a cup of tea and a piece of cake-- Crowley’s light and delicate sponge, Aziraphale’s dense chocolate.

 

    Crowley still only eats half of his serving, and a little taste of Aziraphale’s, pushing his plate over an inch to indicate it might be stolen at Aziraphale’s leisure. The youths have, mercifully, run off towards some other amusement, and Crowley doesn’t have to share any more of Aziraphale’s attention for now. Once they leave the tea tent, he supposes all bets are off, but it’s nice just to be by themselves. For a little bit, at least, before they rejoin the world.

 

    There are other stalls, jams and chutneys with ribbons, local handicrafts. There’s a woman using a drop spindle to spin yarn, at one, and she beckons them over.

 

    “Would either of you gentlemen like to try?” She offers. “It’s very simple.”

 

    Aziraphale nods, and Crowley lets him go, watches him take to it quickly, his soft hands graceful and swift. It must have been an age since he’s last done it, Crowley thinks, but apparently the knack is more easily remembered than sleight of hand had been, though that had been a more recent hobby. Well, comparatively.

 

    “Oh, you’ve done this before, Sir!”

 

    “Yes.” He chuckles sheepishly. “A while back, a while back. Ezra Fell, Miss…?”

 

    “Mrs. Julia Standish.”

 

    “Mrs. Standish, an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He returns her spindle. “And may I present my dear friend Anthony Crowley.”

 

    “So formal.” He rolls his eyes. “Julia. You wouldn’t, by chance, work with the little yarn shop…?”

 

    “Oh, yes. Yes, that’s our yarn. Would you care to--?”

 

    “Oh, no. I’m happy to work with the finished product. Well, like he said, a pleasure.” He leans forward, shaking her hand. “I’m sure we’ll see you.”

 

    They pass by the few games set up, not at the level of what Crowley imagines the village fete is like in summer-- and they’ll be back for that, they’ll walk arm in arm just like today-- but a few. The kids wave to them again.

 

    They fall into a few other odd conversations-- with the man who runs the local nursery, who remembers Crowley from when he’d been getting his greenhouse set, and who seems surprised to see him on Aziraphale’s arm, but not disapproving. With Aziraphale’s cooking instructor, who’s leading her husband towards the bandstand. With a gentleman with a hat and a book who seems every inch Aziraphale’s kindred spirit, and who immediately recognizes him from his kid’s description of Mr. Fell From Class-- nice to know at least one of the little buggers thinks of him as actually dad-like instead of Daddy-like, then.

 

    There are jugglers, one in a polka-dotted shirt, one in white with a ponytail, and Crowley drags Aziraphale up to the front to watch, cuddling in against his side with a grin as the patter begins, and they start with balls and clubs before getting out the knives.

 

    “We’ll need a volunteer--” The taller juggler begins, the one in white, just as his partner drops a knife he’d been tossing to himself. “Oh, oh, you know what _that_ means.”

 

    He walks over, pulling a small pad of little white stickers from his pocket and affixing one to his partner’s shirt.

 

    “All right, as I was saying, we’ll need a volunteer?”

 

    Crowley’s hand shoots up.

 

    “Honestly.” Aziraphale laughs. “I wouldn’t have guessed you liked this sort of thing.”

 

    “Oh, jugglers are ours.” Crowley whispers to him. “They’re pure evil. I hope they do flaming torches next.”

 

    “Go on, then.” He shakes his head, cheering the act on as Crowley is chosen to volunteer.

 

    There are some other entertainments, and Crowley’s not particularly interested in a late lunch, but he accompanies Aziraphale for another cup of tea, and to steal a nibble of his pie. They linger a while, before going back past the stalls again, not really willing to call it a day.

 

    “Win your young man a prize?”

 

    Aziraphale turns, startled, towards the game booths, finding the one from whence he’d been hailed.

 

    “Oh, no--” He starts, hesitates. He doesn’t correct the error.

 

    Nor does Crowley.

 

    Crowley, in fact, just hangs onto his arm and tugs at him.

 

    “Angel, _would_ you?”

 

    “Would I? Do you really want one?”

 

    “I want you to _win_ me one.” He grins, and Aziraphale’s heart skitters and leaps.

 

    Aziraphale nods, digging out his wallet, and then slipping out of his jacket and handing it over to Crowley to hold. He makes a bit of a show of limbering up, while Crowley laughs and pulls out his phone.

 

    This is their life now. It hits him all over again, this is their life. He gets to listen to Crowley laugh, as often as he can make him. To discuss putting in a vegetable garden, and the meals he’ll cook for them in future. To buy each other tea and cake and walk arm in arm and to enjoy days out, yes, but also days in… This is their life, and Crowley had not corrected the man, either.

 

    He wins him a plush snake, draping it over his shoulders with some satisfaction, drinking in the raised eyebrows, the smirk that comes in as an attempt to cover something brief and soft.

 

    “There. Anthony Junior.” He declares, and Crowley laughs again, returning his jacket.

 

    “I love him.” He snaps a quick selfie with his prize, and takes Aziraphale’s arm the moment it’s available. “He’s sleeping with me.”

 

    “Oh, honestly…” Aziraphale blushes.

 

    “Honestly.” Crowley kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

 

    “Oh! Well… Any time, my dear, happy to oblige.”

 

    They wander slowly across the green, arm in arm in the purpling twilight. Early yet, but not too early this time of year for the sun to begin creeping lower. Aziraphale supposes they shall have to push their evenings earlier if they hope to watch the sunset from the cliffs, but then, the colder it gets, the less likely Crowley will want to. Soon, it will be too chilly even on the veranda, with the blankets… but there will always be the stars, from the lingering warmth of the greenhouse. Midwinter, they might want to bundle up a bit to be out there all night, but they could do. The temperature wouldn’t drop too badly on them.

 

    Especially not, he thinks, if they were to share the chaise.

 

    There’s music coming from the bandstand, songs Aziraphale would categorize as modern even if no one else was likely to. Things he remembers from the forties, mostly.

 

    “Dance with me?” Crowley asks him, as one song fades into another.

 

    “Dear, you know it’s been a hundred years since I-- And I wouldn’t know _how_ \--”

 

    “There’s not anything to it, you just sway. Come on.” Crowley entreats, turning to face him. He is himself not swaying so much as doing an awkward sort of shimmy, but there’s something endearing about it when he beckons, something rather difficult to resist.

 

    “You really want to dance with me?”

 

    “No, I thought I’d ask on the off chance I might get a nice rejection from my best friend. _Come on._ Indulge your ‘young man’.”

 

    “You, my dear, are neither. Strictly speaking.” Aziraphale chuckles, giving Crowley his hand. He tries to position himself like he sees other couples doing.

 

    They’re both terrible at it, of course, but it’s _fun_. They’re terrible at it for three songs, when they collapse against each other laughing.

 

    “Let’s call it a night.” Crowley sighs. “Let’s call it a night.”

 

    “Yes. Home awaits. We should take a dance class next, I'm thinking...”

 

    They fall into step together, holding hands this time. Crowley leans in, his shoulder to Aziraphale’s shoulder, his head bent to rest against Aziraphale’s head.

 

    The drive home zips by, though not at an alarming speed. Aziraphale feels warm and comfortable and almost as if he could actually sleep, though he’s not sure that means he will. He feels content to the core.

 

    “Will you come and join us?” Crowley asks, as they drift towards the stairs.

 

    “Hm?”

 

    “Will you come and join us?” This time he makes Anthony Junior’s head nod. “Bed. Would you like to? Just… not to have the night be over?”

 

    “Yes, I’d like that. I’ll dress for bed and meet you.” Aziraphale nods.

 

    Crowley is on his phone, when Aziraphale does join him, the plush snake somehow wrapped even more firmly about himself as he lounges in bed.

 

    Aziraphale slides in at his side-- and this, too, is his life, he has a side of Crowley’s bed. He goes into Instagram to leave his usual comment on Crowley’s outfit of the day before setting his alarm, only to see all the other pictures as well.

 

    Crowley, with Anthony Junior draped around his neck, ‘Cuddly snake!’-- he gives it a like and resists the urge to say ‘looks like a very cuddly snake to me’-- and then the one of himself in the process of winning it. ‘@FellBooks has a surprising talent for carnival games, and if I didn’t know him any better, I’d say he was cheating somehow’.

 

    ‘Well luckily you do know me well enough to know I would never do such a thing’, he replies, this time bracketed with angel emojis.

 

    He gets to the pictures by the duck pond, then-- comments on the one of him with ‘You know my natural habitat is the library’, and on the two of them to say ‘You know you do love the ducks’, and then his usual compliment to the outfit.

 

    Then he sets his alarm at last, and settles down, turning towards Crowley in the dark.

 

    “Thank you for today, angel.” Crowley whispers, and his hand steals out to slip into Aziraphale’s.

 

    “Thank you for joining me.”

 

    “Sweet dreams.” He adds.

 

    “And you, my dear, and you. I do think mine might be.”

 

    Tonight, he falls asleep easily.


	10. Chapter 10

    Aziraphale is there at the foot of the grand, sweeping staircase. The black and white house with the green plants. The staid, serene angels going about their duties, the rooms, all impressive, all cold. He doesn’t bother with the rooms he’d already looked in on before-- he moves down the upstairs corridor with a purpose he doesn’t know or understand. He follows the sole spots of color down to the very end, where across from one great door, there’s a second staircase up.

 

    It’s less grand, it isn’t a big elegant curve of marble steps and ebony bannisters with big brass pineapple finials, but it is as wide as the great door opposite, dark polished walnut with the same plush carpet. Somehow Aziraphale knows that if if were in color, the carpet would be red, just as he’d known the finials were brass and not silver. The base of the staircase is flanked by two of the potted plants, like two green lights giving him the go-ahead, and so he ascends.

 

    The angels do not move back and forth here as much. The rooms he passes are private offices with big glass windows, they work quietly and steadfastly and do not look up at him when he walks by. But at the end of this corridor there are two potted palms, and he moves steadily on towards them, until he passes an open door and finds himself suddenly awake.

 

    Awake, and in Crowley’s arms, which is a vision of heaven preferable to any others he could dream or imagine, let alone the real thing. Oh, he’d take Crowley’s arms over Heaven any day…

 

    He feels too awake to linger, now, though. Well… to linger a moment, perhaps, and to soak up the full awareness of his comfortable spot there. The scent of pressing his nose into the crook of Crowley’s neck, the way he clings on in his sleep, his arms strong, his chest flat and firm… the soft, hissing snore, the way it interrupts and then evens out, as Crowley nearly wakes and then does not. There’s something pressed between their bodies, and it takes Aziraphale some time to work out what it must be, as he shifts slightly in Crowley’s hold, face still buried against him.

 

    “Oh. It’s your snake.” He yawns. Crowley stirs and sighs and relaxes once more.

 

    Aziraphale works himself free of Crowley’s arms, and when Crowley whines, he moves Anthony Junior back up, tucking the plush snake’s head under Crowley’s chin and watching him smile in his sleep.

 

    He leans in and kisses his forehead, feeling it smooth and cool under his lips, nose in his hair.

 

    “All right, my dear, you get your rest… I’ll make coffee after my shower, you just sleep ‘til then.” He says, though he’s sure Crowley doesn’t hear him. He fixes the blankets around Crowley, and then he slips into the bathroom and out of his pajamas, getting the water going.

 

    Back in bed, Crowley hums, snuggling into the space Aziraphale has vacated, curling into the warmth. The words had washed over him without making any sense, the kiss might have been his own fading dream, but he’s beginning to be conscious to the world. He’s cuddled in bed with the left-behind warmth and scent of Aziraphale, and with the cuddly toy Aziraphale had won him…

 

    How was that not a dream? How had he been allowed such a silly human thing? How had he been indulged so?

 

    Is there any way Aziraphale would have done all that for him if he wasn’t also in love? Well… no, there is. Because it’s Aziraphale, because he does indulge, because he is silly, and rather human in his way. Because he might have, just as a friend.

 

    But it doesn’t mean he couldn’t still love him, romantically. He could, he might, he…

 

    Crowley listens to the water start up, and waits for the inexpertly warbled opening of ‘Morning Has Broken’. It’s not what he gets.

 

    “Such a feeling’s coming over me, there is wonder in most everything I see. Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes, and I won’t be surprised if it’s a dream…”

 

    Well, that’s Aziraphale all right. Slightly off-key but joyously loud, enough to carry over the water and through the walls. Crowley doesn’t recognize the song, but he assumes it’s a hymn because it’s _always_ a hymn. The odd snatches of something secular never come along until well after he’s done a few hymns. And while he’s done modern hymns-- while he has perfect recall where music is concerned, to the point that he could sing a song he’d heard once on the radio as well as he could any he knows-- he’s never elected to sing anything modern and secular to himself, outside of having odd bits of Queen stuck in his head…

 

    And then he gets through the next bit, and Crowley realizes it’s not a hymn at all. It’s the bloody Carpenters. Yes, and there’s the chorus, there’s Aziraphale belting out ‘Top of the World’, but _why_? It’s certainly treacly enough for him, which… Crowley shouldn’t like, he’s never once _liked_ the Carpenters, he’s…

 

    But does it mean something, that Aziraphale’s chosen some awful treacly love song, where he used to start every shower with ‘Morning Has Broken’? When he’s spent the night with him, when they’ve…

 

    Been on a date?

 

    Had Aziraphale asked him on a date? And had he spent the day arm in arm thinking about kissing him? Would he want to kiss him? Not the way they sometimes do, soft in passing, but full on the mouth? Take him in his arms and hold him close and make love to him?

 

    What things did Aziraphale long for, that they don’t have and do?

 

    Crowley pets absently at the acrylic fur of Anthony Junior. He can’t hazard a guess… it could be anything. It could be nothing. It could be that he feels the same but that he doesn’t need anything to change, which Crowley supposes would be fair. They could say the words, someday, and nothing would have to change. But some changes… it might be nice, that’s all. It might be nice to be kissed, to be taken in his arms… to be made love to the way people expect, and to make love to Aziraphale in the way people never do…

 

    The bathroom door clicks open, and Crowley sits up, smiling over at Aziraphale.

 

    “In the mood for some very newfangled music today.” He teases gently, watching Aziraphale blush and stammer.

 

    “You could hear me?”

 

    “Don’t stop doing it on my account.”

 

    “I didn’t know you could hear me…”

 

    He rises, leaving Anthony Junior lying in Aziraphale’s spot, beneath the rumpled duvet. “Yeah. How I get the right start to a morning, listening to you in there. Lets me know the day’s going to go all right. Hey… I’m going to take a couple days to get some work done for us this week, yeah? And then back in time for class?”

 

    “First I’m hearing about it.” He says mildly.

 

    “Well…” Crowley leans in, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale. “Weather’s getting colder and wetter, and I’m not going to want to do much traveling soon, so I’d better take my turn now, while it’s as good as it’s going to be. Supposed to be a real turn after this weekend.”

 

    “But I haven’t any time to send you off, as you did me.” And he actually pouts, at that.

 

    Crowley likes that he pouts at that. It gives him some hope that he’s not far off.

 

    “Fry me up a little something for breakfast, then, and give us a nice goodbye. You can welcome me home. I’ll be back Tuesday night. You can cook for me-- something nice and cozy to come back to? After I fly through the cold…”

 

    “You did cook for me when I came home…”

 

    “Yeah, but I just made pasta. There wasn’t anything to it. Didn’t even make the sauce from scratch. You’d be making something _special_.” He wheedles, cuddling up to him shamelessly, soaking up the warmth from him as if he could save it for his trip.

 

    “Well… I still wish I’d known in advance when you planned to go, but-- Oh, all right.” Aziraphale sighs. “And stop it, you serpent, you. Do you want me to make you a fortifying breakfast or not? Come on, let me get on with it.”

 

    Crowley grins and lets himself be removed from Aziraphale’s person with a gentle tap to the hip. “All right. I’ll dress and pack and be down in a minute.”

 

    He travels pretty light-- he doesn’t need to travel with anything, really, but he prefers to. He has his sleek and hip looking overnight bag, enough space to put a couple favorite articles of clothing-- or to put anything he manifests for himself and would rather keep than vanish-- and to take his knitting with him, and a book.

 

    “You take good care of Aziraphale while I’m out.” He addresses the cuddly toy on the bed playfully, carefully packing his volume of Les Fleurs du Mal. He rather wishes he could take the snake along, to have something soft in bed that might remind him of Aziraphale, but there’s not room in his overnight bag, and it would be a bit ridiculous to pack a large suitcase just to take a stuffed animal along. He’s over six thousand years old, he can sleep without a soft toy!

 

    Anyway, he’ll have the book, which had been a gift from Aziraphale as well… he’s long taken it with him on trips. Sometimes he doesn’t even read it at all, except for the hastily-penciled inscription in the front, which he’d asked for. ‘To my dear C-- Just be what thou wilt-- Your A--’, a note he’s pored over the past hundred odd years, and for so long he hadn’t thought it could mean…

 

    _Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine_. ‘The Possessed One’. Had he sought an appropriate line, and had he found one? Had he meant to quote that poem in particular? Why not ‘Le Serpent Qui Danse’, if he was going to nod to a poem for Crowley in particular? ‘Sympathetic Horror’? Why not ‘The Rebel’? ‘The Litanies of Satan’, even! He’d thought it a mistake, when he’d seen the line in place in its poem and realized. Now… now, he doesn’t know.

 

    He knows the poem by heart, now, but he’s comforted having the book with him when he’s far from home, and the little note in Aziraphale’s neat hand, teasing at the edges of his imagination now and then. Because even if he’d meant to rob it of its context within the poem, for Crowley to take the words on face value, separate from where they appear in the volume, they are powerful. ‘Just be what thou wilt’, to a demon, from an angel? Had that alone been his intention, it would still mean the world.

 

    He dresses, dark jeans, red merino top, black leather jacket to put on against the chill-- and most importantly, the cuff from Aziraphale. Call him sentimental, he supposes…

 

    Aziraphale is at the stove when he gets down to the kitchen, dressed as well-- his corduroy slacks, one of his older shirts, the grey cardigan, the one with the thick cabling that hangs a bit too long on him, but fits just right across the shoulders, and hugs his upper arms.

 

    “Hullo, dear, coffee’s going.” He greets, smiling over his shoulder.

 

    “Shall I fix you a cup?”

 

    “Oh-- well… that would be nice.” He nods.

 

    The toast politely waits to pop up, for Aziraphale to have finished the sausages, and it’s done the way he expects it to be. He butters it, and gets some melon cut up, gets everything plated nicely before joining Crowley and the coffee at the table.

 

    “Here’s to a good trip.” He raises his mug-- his ‘shop hours’ mug-- beaming when Crowley clinks his own to it gently. “You’ll text?”

 

    “Every miracle.” He promises.

 

    “I wish I’d had the chance to give you a proper send-off…”

 

    “Aziraphale.” Crowley sighs, feeding him a piece of melon. “You danced with me. You won me a prize. You showed me a really nice time. That’s all I wanted to do…”

 

    “Yes, but I didn’t ask you to join me for that, I just-- I just asked you, for-- I just asked you.” He fusses with his napkin, blushing. “Well… All right, but I shall do a nice dinner when you come back, and we’ll watch a film then. One with as many leopards as you like.”

 

    “I’ll hold you to that.”

 

    “Anything you like.” Aziraphale laughs, feeding him a bite in return.

 

    They establish a comfortable back and forth with it, as they’ve so often done since saving the world. Or… well, being present for its being saved, anyway. Crowley likes to imagine they must have made a difference, in the hazy bits he ill remembers, even if he didn’t seem to have done much at all in the bits that he remembers well.

 

    “Sausage is perfect.” Crowley hums around a bite, smiling at the way Aziraphale preens over the praise.

 

    “Well, you’d said you liked it when I’d done it this way before…”

 

    “And I do. Here, you have some, don’t give me all the good stuff.”

 

    Aziraphale relents without argument, with a look both fond and flattered.

 

    It’s a pleasant little breakfast. This time, Crowley claims a hug before they part, committing it to memory before taking off-- the feel of Aziraphale’s arms around him, and the cardigan soft beneath his hands, and the solid, reassuring span of his shoulders, and the scent of him.

 

    He texts, and Aziraphale texts back. Crowley texts that he’s arrived and gotten a hotel room, that he’s having a cup of coffee, that he’s done this or that for work, what the watering schedule is for the houseplants-- though at least those in the greenhouse, he assures him, are all on timers. Aziraphale texts the sunrises and sunsets from the veranda, and his own meals, and updates on the plants, which he dutifully waters on schedule, though he speaks much more sweetly to them.

 

    Crowley does not text Aziraphale about the nice little volume of Apocrypha he finds-- no printer’s errors, but some furiously-scribbled notes in the margins, two separate hands, and he might find some interest in that. It’s just as well-- a printer’s error, and Aziraphale would protest he’d spent too much. He buys a sheet of beautifully hand-marbled paper, bold red and blue with a range of golds, the shapes of the colors reminiscent of wings-- though in colors too bright to echo Aziraphale’s wings, precisely. More… more his own.

 

    Aziraphale does not text Crowley to tell him he’d attempted to sleep in his bed one night, when he couldn’t sleep in his own. He still couldn’t sleep, but he was a little more comfortable. He found a bizarre sort of comfort in Anthony Junior.

 

    Tuesday, Aziraphale spends in the greenhouse. He reads a few hours in the morning, comfy on the chaise, and then on a whim, he fills the copper bath.

 

    He may as well, Crowley had given him permission to use it when it was free, and he certainly can’t take a turn when he’s traveling. It’s early enough that even if he wanted it on his return, there won’t be any conflict.

 

    It really is lovely-- he ought to have taken him up on the offer sooner. He doesn’t want the water so hot as Crowley likes it. Rather, Aziraphale enjoys the contrast between the steamy heat of the greenhouse at midday, gathering all of the sun and subject to none of the wind, and the rather more lukewarm water. It’s like bathing in a pool in some far-off jungle, surrounded by the lush green of Crowley’s plants, no sound but his own intermittent humming. The mezzanine overhead is crowded with devil’s ivy, tendrils cascading over the edge, sunlight coming through the leaves of those plants as well as the ones that provide the tub with its modesty.

 

    He leaves the bath at last, and towels off, and then he perches on the chaise, towel about his waist, and lets his wings unfurl.

 

    “Oh, that’s good…” He groans, stretching, mindful of the furniture and the plants. He has a lot of room to stretch _up_ , which he’d never had at his old flat. He’d had no room at all. Even under the best circumstances, it’s difficult to groom one’s own wings. He wasn’t designed to, really. But he sets to his task as best he can, stilling only when he hears shuffle of footsteps.

 

    Crowley had rushed home ahead of schedule, had finally ached so much for Aziraphale that he couldn’t stand it. He hadn’t expected he might be greeted by the sight of those wings.

 

    “D’you want a hand?” He offers, his mouth suddenly dry. The temptation is incredible, to touch, to taste. All manner of things he longs to do, if Aziraphale would only permit him. For now, best to stick to grooming and preening, perhaps… but next time?

 

    “Oh-- would you?”

 

    He nods, finally letting himself move forward, coming to stand just behind Aziraphale, behind the beautiful wings that haunt his dreams.

 

    There are a lot of things he doesn’t remember, about the end of the world. He remembers their wings had been out.

 

    He hasn’t groomed a set of wings since before the world much existed, but his hands remember how. And never were there wings so soft and sweet to the touch… never was there an angel who reacted so beautifully to being taken care of like this.

 

    “Ohh, welcome home, my dear…” He sighs, melting under Crowley’s touch. “I wasn’t expecting you until evening… I’d have put tea on.”

 

    “No need. But after the flight I’ve had… you might do this for me, when I’m done doing for you?”

 

    “Of course, my-- _ah_!-- my pleasure.” A shiver travels up his spine and down his wings. He fluffs up a bit and needs Crowley to smooth him back down.

 

    A task Crowley is only too glad to do for him.

 

    “You’re so soft… you’ve got such thick feathers.” Crowley says, straightening them out where they’ve gone awry. “Is that why you’re always so warm?”

 

    “Or it’s the other way around. I’m not sure.” Aziraphale squirms, unused to such praise.

 

    “Bet it’d be like being wrapped in the coziest duvet, to be held in these.”

 

    “Oh-- _oh_ \-- I wouldn’t-- I wouldn’t rightly kno- _ohh, Crowley_ , but you’ve got… you’ve got such clever fingers…”

 

    Crowley grins, forgetting himself a moment on the strength of that praise. He leans forward, burying his nose in Aziraphale’s coverts. Aziraphale _sighs_. It’s so soft, and yet the warmth that floods Crowley when he does… the _happiness_ he suddenly feels, his only thought for a moment his own name, and he realizes with a burst of his own joy that it’s Aziraphale’s thought, Aziraphale’s feeling.

 

    He pushes back against it with his own. Focuses on his enjoyment in sharing this experience, how un-lonely Aziraphale makes the world, how badly he’s wanted his touch, how the longest stretch of his flight was spent dreaming of him, how he’d flown faster to reach him all the sooner… He doesn’t know how much Aziraphale can feel and know, but the contentment winding its way around him is a powerful, warm thing.

 

    “ _Dear_ …” Another sigh. “We should have done this from the start.”

 

    “No argument from me.” Crowley nuzzles a little more, having not been told not to.

 

    Aziraphale is unwilling to have the intimacy of the act end. It is intimate, the way social grooming in Heaven never had been for him before-- oh, for others, he’s heard, it could be. But it had always felt… it had always felt like an obligation of sorts, when he was included in those things. And then, to be away for so long…

 

    But with Crowley, this is what was sometimes spoken of with reverence or with teasing glee. This was that communion of selves, done not because someone ought to, but because Crowley wanted to. Crowley had seen him and wanted to, whether it was because the sight of him moved him to desire or to pity or to pure expression of friendship. And if it were pity, not the pity of Heaven, for an angel no one else much wanted to deal with, but the pity of a friend who understood exactly what it was like to be alone, to struggle to do for yourself that which beloved brothers might have done for you once. A dear friend who would not see you suffer silent.

 

    They are complete together, does Crowley feel it? He must! They are complete together, nothing else can matter.

 

    “There…” Crowley sighs in his ear at last, as the final feather is smoothed. And Aziraphale would protest their stopping, if he thought he could take another touch. As it is, he feels weak, trembling like a new lamb.

 

    “I’ll get yours.” He says, as though Crowley could forget. He turns around on the end of the chaise, and Crowley pulls the pouf up to sit on, and pulls his shirt off. For a moment, it’s only his naked back, the bunching muscles at his shoulders, entrancingly beautiful even before his wings burst forth.

 

    Shining and perfect, Crowley’s wings… the colors in them a bright rainbow to Aziraphale’s senses, the impressive span… They’re built for speed, Crowley’s wings. Aziraphale’s own are made to soar long distances on updrafts, to build height on a strong take-off and then to carry him far, but Crowley… oh, Crowley is ever the speed demon. Maneuverable and swift… there’s something elegant about wings like that.

 

    They do need some attention after his travels, that much is true. Aziraphale carefully eases out a couple of feathers that want to come loose, and smooths the rest where they’ve been ruffled. For long moments after he’s finished, he simply strokes his hands firmly along the top sides of both, as far as he can reach on each stroke.

 

    “That’sss _nice_ …” Crowley hisses, his head falling back.

 

    “I’m glad.” Aziraphale swallows. He could lean forward and kiss his forehead, so easily. “They’re very lovely, your wings.”

 

    Crowley heaves a deep sigh, eyes fluttering open. Aziraphale can just catch a glimpse of them, where his sunglasses are askew. Crowley reaches up to remove them at last, and he smiles. Aziraphale smiles back.

 

    “Thanks.” Crowley says.

 

    “Not at all. It’s true, I mean. No call to thank me just for speaking truth.”

 

    “Well, still. You’re very gentle with them.”

 

    “Oh.” His face heats. Crowley makes it sound like a good thing, gentle. “What would you like for dinner, my dear? I’d arranged to have the groceries delivered, I’ve got everything we’d need for anything. Could do a cottage pie, or anything with a cheese sauce! Or just anything you like. Well, any of the things I can make.”

 

    “Cottage pie sounds nice, after my flight-- just a small one, or I’ll overeat and sleep right through tomorrow, and I want to enjoy what you make then, too.”

 

    “Just a small one.” This time, Aziraphale does kiss his forehead. “All right. And I’ll pull a nice bottle of red for you, I think I’ve got something that should please you very well.”

 

    “You usually do.” Crowley says. He certainly feels as pleased as he could reasonably ask to be.

 

    He dawdles a moment in the pleasant afternoon warm of his greenhouse, drinking in the familiar scent, before he pulls his shirt back on and trails back into the kitchen to watch Aziraphale at work. He breaks from his old instruction sheet to add some shallot to the recipe.

 

    “You’ll join me for a movie?” He asks, as Aziraphale pours the wine. “After dinner?”

 

    “Yes, of course. Whatever you have picked out.”

 

    Crowley hasn’t picked anything, but he doesn’t let that stop him. As long as he’s got Aziraphale with him, he’s sure it will turn out all right whatever he picks.

 

    Dinner is just enough to feel pleasantly full and sleepy on, not enough to sleep a day away or to prevent him having one nice little meal tomorrow. But a nice kind of full. It doesn’t take all that much for him to want a good night’s sleep and some warmth.

 

    “My room?” He yawns.

 

    “I’ll meet you.” Aziraphale promises.

 

    Crowley picks up his bag from where he’d left it at the bottom of the stairs, and heads upstairs to change for bed and put his things away. He finds his bed made, Anthony Junior coiled up in the middle between the pillows, and he smiles.

 

    Once he’s dressed for bed, he can focus on putting his things where they belong. Aziraphale comes in in his own pajamas and robe, just as Crowley is returning Les Fleurs du Mal to its little secret place in his nightstand drawer, to be pored over on long and lonely sleepless nights-- or, more likely, to be taken out and looked at and replaced before a very good night’s sleep.

 

    “Is that--?”

 

    “Er, yes.”

 

    “The one I gave you?” He smiles.

 

    “The same.”

 

    “Did you have it with you?”

 

    “Well… I like to travel with an old favorite.”

 

    Aziraphale climbs in on his own side of the bed, gently shifting Anthony Junior. “Well… it did make me think of you, some of the poems. ‘As an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the Nile, my heart a swan’s whiteness with granite combines’...”

 

    ‘ _Beauty_ ’... The poem he quotes is ‘Beauty’. The speaker an immortal muse who woos poets with its great, beautiful eyes. It had been Crowley’s habit to play the muse… which Aziraphale always chided him for, but had he never really disapproved? And what of ‘The Possessed One’?

 

    “D’you mind if we postpone the movie?” He asks. “I’m just a bit tired.”

 

    “I’ve overfed you.” Aziraphale sighs, nodding. “Of course, dear boy, it’s your movie and we’ll watch it when you like.”

 

    “You can still stay!”

 

    “All right.” He smiles, and settles down. With a gesture, Crowley puts the light out.

 

    “Good night, dear.”

 

    “G’night. Er-- Aziraphale?”

 

    “Yes?”

 

    “Time was, used to wish we were the same.” Crowley whispers, his head finding its way down to Aziraphale’s shoulder, his body pressing close for the warmth. He has to say it. Maybe it isn’t everything, but it’s enough. If he can only make Aziraphale understand one thing tonight, this will be enough. “That we could be anything, as long as we were the same, because then we could spend our time together without always looking over our shoulders. Only… the one way we could have been, I’d never… I’d never really have wanted you to Fall. You’d hate it. It’s not for you, and I-- even then, I was never easy imagining it that way.”

 

    “I know, though. I wished it, too. The same side, free to spend long hours just… talking, walking, never fearing we might be told to stop.”

 

    “I used to wish and then not… Or-- I used to wish there was some third thing we could be. But… all this time, I-- I’ve realized something.”

 

    “And what is that?” Aziraphale asks, giving a lock of Crowley’s hair a gentle tweak, when the rest is not forthcoming.

 

    “I love that you’re an angel.” He admits. “I love that you shoot yourself in the foot doing Good. I love that you sing hymns while you dust. I love that you try so hard not to swear when it doesn’t matter-- and that I _know_ you want to tell me it _always_ matters. I love that animals like you, when you’re not giving them a reason not to, and I love that your wings always need a good preening but you’ll just cluck at me about vanity. I love how _warm_ you are, I love that you’re different from me and we’re still so the same. I would rather fight Hell than change you for anything but what you are.”

 

    “Oh, _Crowley_ …”

 

    “Anyway.” He shrugs.

 

    “I’m a _terrible_ singer.”

 

    “You are, but I don’t like it any less.”

 

    “I love that you’re a demon.” Aziraphale says, so soft that if they weren’t lying so close together, Crowley never would have heard him. “I love that you can’t help your mischief. I love that you tempt me into little things. I love that you make such a production of your sins, even when they’re rather minor. I love the way that you bend the world to your charm, and I love the way you’re put together and slick even when I know you’re not so confident at heart. I love that your eyes are always the same as when I first knew them, I love that you’re different from me. And yet, _yes_ , the same. And I would rather fight Heaven than lose you, as you are, as you’ve so long been.”

 

    “Aziraphale…”

 

    “Hush, dear, I know, I know.”

 

    “Don’t, though.”

 

    “Fight Heaven? No, of course not, not if there’s any helping it. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t change myself, knowing I’m dear to you as I am.”

 

    “You are. As you are. You’re my best friend.”

 

    “You’re my only real friend.” Aziraphale admits. “The only one to truly know me. You know all of me. I-- I’ve wanted, since the world didn’t end, to tell you how very precious you are. And I want it to be clear I, I don’t mean to press for anything more than you’ve already said! To be so held in your esteem is a gift already. There is nothing I expect or ask, and no way in which I expect you to alter your behavior towards me. I only want you to know.”

 

    Crowley holds him a little tighter, and elects not to tease him for how flowery he gets when emotions are being discussed, sometimes. The last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to pull back now.

 

    “Thank you. I-- I’m glad. And… I mean, and you, you know. You’re-- _precious_. You are.”

 

    “I only want you to know.” He repeats, and tugs Crowley into the circle of his arms, to lay against his chest. “There is _nothing_ in the universe I love so well as you. In all Creation, I-- nothing so dear to me as you, as you are.”

 

    “As _you_ are.” Crowley echoes. “There’s nothing half as good as you the way you are.”

 

    “Crowley…”

 

    “Aziraphale.” He kisses his shoulder, and settles in to sleep. “You’re my best friend.”

 

    “You’re mine, my dear, you’re mine.” He says, and presses his lips to Crowley’s hair.

 

    “Forever.”

 

    “ _Forever_.”


	11. Chapter 11

    He all but flies up the marble staircase, down the vast corridor, up the second set of stairs. Something compels him, though he couldn’t say what. There’s a third staircase, at the end of the next hall, narrow and plain and dark. He rushes up, the space feeling tight around him-- it’s his wings, he realizes. He’s had them out, why wouldn’t he have here? But this is cramped, he pushes onward and upward. A door at the top of the stairs halts him, but only for a moment. It swings open easily, and beyond…

 

    “Oh…” Aziraphale steps forward, into the green. It’s as if all the greenhouse has been shoved into this one little room, and it doesn’t feel cramped. He can spread out here, though there are plants crowded in all around. Color. He’s been trying to reach this room, though he hadn’t known he would find it.

 

    “Been waiting on you, angel.” Crowley’s voice is warm, and Aziraphale turns, lighting up further at the sight of him. He rushes to him, to wrap his arms around him.

 

    “Well I’ve got the hang of it now, I think.” He promises. “What are you doing here?”

 

    “Aside from waiting?”

 

    “I mean-- we’re in Heaven. Aren’t we?”

 

    “Not up in here. This is just ours. Just Earth. Aziraphale… tell me?” Crowley’s fingers ghost over his cheek. “Tell me that you love me?”

 

    “I have done, I do.” He promises, holds him even tighter. “Of course I love you.”

 

    “The real me.”

 

    “Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale frowns. “You’re not real… you’re just something my mind’s come up with while I’m asleep, you’re just my own thoughts. How odd.”

 

    “Being human is odd.” He laughs and kisses Aziraphale’s cheek softly. It feels like any other kiss to the cheek from the real Crowley in the real world. “But you’re getting the hang of it.”

 

    “I do love you.”

 

    “I know. Well, of course _I_ know, don’t I?” He laughs again, and guides Aziraphale to come and sit on a carpet of grass in the center of the room. “‘Cause I’m in here. But… it felt good to say it, didn’t it? Think how good it’ll feel to say the rest. And tell me.”

 

    “I’m not sure how much weight your advice carries, when you’re only me.” Aziraphale says, though he still welcomes the dream of Crowley into his lap.

 

    “Don’t you know what you’re talking about?”

 

    “Maybe. But I can’t really know your mind-- er, the real one-- can I?”

 

    “Can’t you?” He raises an eyebrow.

 

    Aziraphale is awake before he can come up with a smart answer. Crowley is in his arms, one leg slung up over his, hands fisted in his pajamas as he clings and cuddles closer. After last night, he can’t dismiss it as a desire for warmth… it was never really just about warmth. Although, he has to admit, he has never felt so warm himself as he does this morning. He slides his hand up Crowley’s back, it comes to rest over a shoulderblade.

 

    Right there… when Crowley’s wings had unfolded from the inner essence of him to manifest themselves physically, one had sprung from this spot. With them, the manifestation of scapular feathers, thick and soft, protecting the point of connection between wing and body. Like and not like the wings of any other creature… His fingertips trace abstract loops through the silk of Crowley’s pajamas, as he recalls stroking through those feathers, soaking up the things that make up Crowley, who and what he is…

 

    He’s still not quite able to wrap his head around the fact he’d groomed them. He’d touched them. He’d been allowed to be gentle and careful with the most intimate part of him. The bold colors, a reflection of Crowley’s own heart, a reflection of his love of the new, of a mind tuned to excitement and innovation, a reflection of Crowley. Vibrant and wonderful. Shaped like a falcon’s, a swift and clever predator, but with all the bold color his personality demands. And now they’ve done it once, they could do it again. Just as they could fly together again at night, from the cliffs out back, they could do this… they could do both together. A little bit of stretching their wings out over the sea at night, and then they could return indoors, to the warmth of the greenhouse, and groom each other… explore what it is to sink into the essence of each other…

 

    They could do this.

 

    The dream doesn’t leave him with a sense of urgency, the word ‘urgent’ implies some anxiety he does not feel. It leaves him feeling certain. Of course he knows Crowley’s mind. He’s known him so long… and when the moment is right, when he tells him what he wants for their future, it will be what Crowley wants, too.

 

    He’ll do it right… a romantic meal, a fine wine. Perhaps not flowers, Crowley has an entire room of his greenhouse which is dedicated mostly to flowers, a hall of perfect blooms he passes through every day to get to the main area and back. Cut flowers wouldn’t be the right token. But something, something. A way to express his caring, and then… a walk, perhaps, out under the moonlight, his coat around Crowley’s shoulders… the chance to say everything, unrushed, unhurried. Perhaps the greenhouse, where they could have the moon and the stars and the warmth, but… He’d do it right.

 

    Crowley hums sleepily, nuzzling in at Aziraphale’s throat. He rolls his shoulders, and the _feel_ of the muscle shifting beneath his touch… it’s unspeakably something, though Aziraphale hardly knows what. It strikes at him, it leaves him dumb and trembling in its wake. He presses his hand more firmly to the spot with a sigh, and Crowley sighs with him.

 

    “Good morning.” He buries his other hand in Crowley’s hair, tilting him up out of hiding just enough to kiss his brow. “My _dear_ demon.”

 

    “Angel.” He wraps his arms around Aziraphale, tightening around him like a boa constrictor. “We’re not in any rush this morning, are we?”

 

    “No. No rush.” Aziraphale smiles. “Never any rush for us, my darling dear. Believe I’ll be making some sort of stew later today, but we’ve all morning to take at our leisure.”

 

    “Oh, stew, sounds nice and hearty for cold weather.” Crowley says approvingly. “No breakfast for me, then, except I might steal a tiny taste of yours if it smells good. Just a nice cup of something.”

 

    “A nice cup of something it is, I’ll be happy to make it for you. If you’re not in any hurry for it, that is… I’m feeling oddly content with a lie-in.”

 

    “Good. Me, too.” He grins, darting up to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek. It’s very reminiscent of a striking viper, with much softer results, and Aziraphale laughs, gently pinning him down to return the affectionate gesture.

 

    It sets off a chain, playful wrestling as they go back and forth kissing cheeks and foreheads and laughing, until they’re both lying there in the tangled duvet, gazing into each other’s eyes, finding things… things they’re not quite ready to bring out, but things they no longer feel the need to shove back down.

 

    Crowley grabs for Anthony Junior, tapping the plush snake’s nose to Aziraphale’s, before hugging the thing to his own chest.

 

    “All right, all right.” Aziraphale pats his hip, freeing himself from the covers. “I’m going to get ready for the day… you lie in as long as you like.”

 

    “Might doze a bit.” Crowley nods. “If you’re going to be in the shower.”

 

    “I’ll leave enough hot water for you and you can have it next.” Aziraphale hears himself say. They could share it, he thinks. They could easily share the shower, roomy as it is, and with all those showerheads from all those directions.

 

    Someday soon, they could.

 

    Once Aziraphale is safely on the other side of the bathroom door, Crowley pushes his own face into Anthony Junior’s, and relives the whole giddy morning. Waking up with Aziraphale’s hand warm over his back, the early morning scent of him… to gentle words and gentle kisses and the gentlest look of love…

 

    Best friend, that’s what they’d said, but that isn’t all of it.

 

    After a while, he hears Aziraphale’s voice, no longer able to keep quiet, song filling the room, and warmth filling Crowley. Aziraphale is his best friend, true, but he’s something else besides… and he knows it. He looks at him like he knows it. He looks at him like…

 

    Crowley can’t quite wrap his head around the way Aziraphale looks at him.

 

    He’s just so achingly happy that he _does_.

 

    They breakfast, after Aziraphale has showered and dressed-- rather, Aziraphale breakfasts, while Crowley enjoys a very nice little espresso and a nibble of bacon, the tiniest lick of egg yolk from the back of a fork. It’s when breakfast is cleared away that Crowley summons the Apocrypha to his hand.

 

    “Aziraphale? I-- I brought you something back.” He holds it out, something expanding in his chest at the way Aziraphale lights up.

 

    “You shouldn’t have!”

 

    “You brought something back for me.” He shrugs.

 

    “Well-- yes. Oh, and it’s my favorite shape…” Aziraphale takes it, turning it over in his hands. “The paper is so _lovely_.”

 

    “You can tear it, you know.”

 

    “Absolutely not! No, I’ve got to _save_ it.” He insists, peeling up the tape with preternatural care. “It’s so beautifully wrapped, you must have picked the paper out special. Were you in Florence?”

 

    “Briefly.” Crowley smiles, and does his best to be patient as Aziraphale seems to attempt not to lift any color at all with the tape. Crowley suspects he cheats and miracles the tape off, but he’s still incredibly slow about it.

 

    “Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, and holds the book a moment to his breast, before leaning in and kissing Crowley’s cheek. “My dear, thank you, it’s a lovely volume. Looks to be in very good repair, and-- eighteen sixty… three?”

 

    “Possibly?”

 

    “It’s _beautiful_.” He embraces Crowley again. “I adore it, utterly. It shall be a trick not letting myself lose track of time now…”

 

    “I’ll keep an eye on the time.” He smiles.

 

    “No, I’d best save this for when I won’t be interrupted. I want to be free to sink into it. Tonight, then.”

 

    They spend the morning in the library just the same, where Aziraphale stretches out on his chaise there and Crowley welcomes himself into his lap, cuddling down into him, Aziraphale’s arms bracketing him as he holds his book and reads over the top of Crowley’s head.

 

    When Aziraphale chuckles, Crowley prompts him to read the line aloud, and soon, Aziraphale is simply reading one of the short stories in the volume aloud start to finish, while Crowley strokes at the thick, soft cardigan he’s wearing.

 

    Crowley had dressed for the weather himself, cashmere sweater beneath velvet blazer, and he’s pleased with the fact that Aziraphale periodically touches him as well, pets at the soft jacket, toys with the hem of the sweater. It feels cozy just to rest together and touch, and he likes the idea they could enjoy trading little touches like this every day. When the time comes to head out for Aziraphale’s class, Crowley goes to pull the Bentley around, and Aziraphale hurries out with umbrella tucked under his arm. When they reach their destination, they need it-- but then, Crowley hardly minds sharing an umbrella, when it means having Aziraphale pressed close.

 

    Indoors, Aziraphale tuts over him, and Crowley breaks into a warm grin with the knowledge that he hadn’t been the one to miracle his other elbow dry. Such an inconsequential thing, when he’d barely gotten wet to begin with, but he likes having Aziraphale fuss. Aziraphale, who knows he hates the damp and has trouble regulating his temperature. Aziraphale, who wants to take care of him.

 

    As has become habit, Crowley takes a lot of video and photographs as Aziraphale cooks, narrating his adventures with seafood stew and just generally pestering him. More than usual, he finds himself physically hanging off of Aziraphale, clinging to his shoulders, draped against his back, holding onto his love handles and resting his chin on him… there’s hardly a moment where he isn’t either capturing him with his phone or in as much physical contact as Aziraphale will allow in public-- and that turns out to be rather a lot.

 

    Aziraphale, for his part, is constant in his own attentions, blushing and smiling and tutting at him about filming, but always pulling him near when his hands are free, always asking his opinion on how this looks, how that smells. Drawing him in at last with a firm hand on his hip, to bring a spoon to his lips for a first taste.

 

    “Mm, ‘s lovely.” Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “Wouldn’t mind a nice mug of that when it’s blustery out.”

 

    “Do you think?” He beams.

 

    “With some cheese toast something, maybe. Something on the side with a different kind of texture to it… Make for a nice full meal, that. Cozy and comforting on a cold night.”

 

    “I think it will be nice for this winter. She did say we should feel very free to be flexible with this recipe, so I could try to tailor it to whatever’s fresh in the market. Imagine! Going out and picking up the catch of the day, coming home and putting a stew on… nice smells filling the cottage. Snipping fresh herbs straight from the little row of planters… Oh, dear, think of it! You, working hard out in the greenhouse, coming in to find the kitchen warm and cozy and supper nearly ready…” He plays his fingers through Crowley’s hair, sighing. “And I’d sit you down at our little table and say no, no, it’s nearly done, nothing for you to do but wait for it now. Dishing up a couple of bowls-- garlic bread or cheese toast to go with-- and you pouring the wine… a nice white, with a fish stew, I’d think, but I could be happy with a rose if you prefer.”

 

    “You do like a sauternes. We could do that. A very good year. And then just… time to chat about the day.” He toys with Aziraphale’s curls in return. “You’d tell me who you saw in town when you went down to the market, and I’d say oh, you should have asked me to give you a lift, and you’d say not to be silly, you like to make your own way now and again when you only have one bag of groceries to carry anyway… and so I’d tell you how the greenhouse was getting on…”

 

    “It sounds idyllic.”

 

    “It does. Coming into my own angel in the kitchen, ready to keep me warm from the inside out.”

 

    There’s a disapproving cough from the next kitchen over, and Aziraphale realizes just how much he and Crowley are leaned into each other. Reluctantly, he parts from him, with one last squeeze to his hip and an apologetic little frown.

 

    “What’s the matter with you?” Crowley scowls at their neighbor.

 

    “Nothing at all’s the matter with _me_.”

 

    “Oh. Jealous?”

 

    “Certainly not!” He sputters. “Just because I don’t like you-- shoving it down our throats all the time--!”

 

    “Believe me, friend,” Crowley drops his voice to a whisper. “I haven’t yet _begun_. And when I _shove it down someone’s throat_ , it won’t be yours, so don’t even worry about that.”

 

    He relishes the look of absolute scandal-- for that matter, he relishes the way Aziraphale steers him out of the kitchen and deposits him at a table.

 

    “You _behave_.” He scolds, though there’s a twinkle in his eye. “I never heard such wickedness, and at my own workstation!”

 

    “I’m sure you’ve heard much wickeder from me before.” Crowley grins, but he takes his seat and stays there.

 

    “You naughty old thing. Now you wait for your supper and be _nice_.” Aziraphale taps the end of his nose, laughing when Crowley makes a show of nipping after him, not that he really attempts to catch him. “If you can’t be fit for decent company, I just don’t know what I’ll do with you.”

 

    “I could come up with some ideas.” Crowley says, mostly for the benefit of their disapproving audience.

   

    Well, their approving audience, as well-- three out of four of the kids are here for the day, and all three look like they wish they had popcorn.

 

    “Oh, I’m sure you could. And why I should reward you by taking your suggestions?”

 

    “Face it, angel, if you didn’t want a bad boy, you’d never have put up with me for so long.”

 

    “Oh yes, the all time bad boy.” He chuckles softly, fingertips trailing over the lapel of the velvet blazer. “That’s you all over. But for _me_ , dear boy, I do hope you’ll behave while you’re accompanying me.”

 

    “I’ll be good… as long as you’re going to be good to me.” He grins.

 

    “Am I ever anything else?”

 

    “You are not.”

 

    Aziraphale touches his cheek, smiling when he leans into it, and then he bustles back to his kitchen. Crowley takes another picture of him, this time taking his own taste of the stew. It’s a perfectly composed photograph, if he says so himself-- the angle his seat puts him at means the light forms the perfect halo around Aziraphale’s hair, and he’s captured him, spoon to his pursed lips, eyes closed… angelic as angelic could be, really.

 

    ‘Perfect day to master the art of a hearty stew. Grey and drizzly out, but @FellBooks is always a ray of sunshine.’ He writes, and then adds an angel emoji and a stew emoji-- convenient, he thinks, that there is one, or he’s not really sure what would have given the impression. He doesn’t think a fish would quite cut it.

 

    There’s no reason not to, at this point, no reason to avoid giving the impression that he’s a man in love. Why make a secret of it?

 

    He finishes going through things, waits for comments to roll in-- some predictable and not worth replying to, but some…

 

    Another rude question about the age difference, and this time Crowley gives up and just says it.

 

    ‘We’re the same age actually, but only one of us moisturizes.’

 

    Not that he expects to be believed, but… well.

 

    ‘So lucky your man cooks for you!’, a much nicer person comments.

 

    ‘He’s really getting good in the kitchen. Spoils me rotten.’ Crowley replies.

 

    Someone else asks about the demon/angel thing, and he’s stumped for a moment, before simply saying it’s their thing and letting it be. He pockets his phone when Aziraphale approaches with their finished product.

 

    “Good marks on this one?” He smiles.

 

    “Oh, yes, well enough. I don’t expect I’m the top of the class this week, but I’m not the bottom, either. Open wide, love.”

 

    _Love_. Aziraphale hadn’t even thought about it, it had slipped out as easy as ‘dear’ might have, but Crowley certainly takes note of it. _Love_.

 

    He hums around his pleasant mouthful. Very nice for the coming winter, this stew. Hearty, delicately flavored, and they could absolutely use their fresh herbs at home… He imagines sopping up the thick broth with a nice crusty bread, feeding tender morsels to Aziraphale… and Aziraphale’s always had a taste for seafood.

 

    “Next fall, I imagine I’ll be doing much more in the way of vegetable stews. With or without meat, I’ve no strong preference, but… with whatever you bring in from the garden.”

 

    “I’m thinking in spring and summer we might put things up. Pickles or jams. Whatever you like, really. Used to have to, first time I had a proper garden, because I could never eat what I grew fast enough.”

 

    “I’m sure we could give some away, too, if we’re overproducing. It might be nice to… but I’d like to put things up, yes. Goodness, those were the days, pickling and preserving! You might make yourself very popular with a few strategically gifted jars of this and that.”

 

    Crowley takes the spoon from Aziraphale, to feed him some of the result of his efforts. The seed is planted, he’s already imagining taking jams and pickles around to the different little small farms, coming away with a jar of honey here, a couple freshly laid eggs there… or a ball of yarn, or… or to take a basket of the fruit from his tree out and come home with fruits he doesn’t grow at home…

 

    He’d missed that, living in the city and growing nothing useful. Much as he loves his lush greenery, there had always been something about producing a crop and going about bartering with people which… He likes it. Whatever social animal there is in him, it thrives on that sort of thing. The trading, yes, but also the little bits of gossip. He thrived on hearing he had the finest of something, and while he didn’t much _need_ for anything when he did trade away the fruits of his own labors, sometimes it was nice. And every once in a while…

 

    Every once in a while, he’d traded not for something he wanted, as he likely wanted nothing in particular which he could not simply give himself, but for something Aziraphale would appreciate. And then he could pop ‘round and say it fell into his lap and would Aziraphale like to share in the bounty, of a bottle of elderflower wine, of a loaf of good bread…

 

    “It’ll be nice, yeah.” He smiles, and pulls one of the prawns to hand-feed to Aziraphale. He watches the way something flickers to life in his eyes, charged, playful, hopeful… He accepts without stopping to question, his lips plump and soft and just wet, around Crowley’s fingertips. It’s only a moment-- he pulls away, blushing, when the youth brigade joins them.

 

    “Oh! Er-- thank you, dear-- Well!” He turns back and forth between Crowley and the kids a moment, though there’s certainly no censure from their quarter. “How did you do?”

 

    Short one of their number, they’d all squeezed into one kitchen together for the week, and they seem rather satisfied, with their mugs of stew.

 

    “Mrs. H says we can be very proud of ourselves.” One boy answers.

 

    “I’m sure you can be. Certainly looks like yours came out right. It’s nice you all work so hard now, you certainly wouldn’t want to get to be my age without learning how to feed yourselves at home.” Aziraphale nods, serenely ignoring Crowley’s snort of amusement.

 

    “Your age?” He shakes his head. “I shudder to think.”

 

    “Oh, hush. Anyway, dears, how has your week been? Keeping up with your course work?”

 

    “Yes, Mr. Fell.” They chorus-- as they do every week, when he asks. There are scattered reports as to how their individual weeks have been, which Crowley mostly tunes out, but he watches Aziraphale listen intently, and offer his little encouragements.

 

    Someone’s love life, someone’s hobby, someone’s question about queer history, it’s always something, and Aziraphale is always so patient and attentive. It’s sweet, really… Aziraphale likes kids, but children, actual ones, once they’re past a certain age he’s just hopeless with them… but college kids, he connects to them. It’s nice, to see him getting to step into the mentor role, to see him enjoy it.

 

    “Oh, Anthony just got back home from a business trip.” Aziraphale says, snapping Crowley’s attention back to the actual conversation at hand. “So I had the house to myself for a couple of days. Looked after the houseplants and just did a lot of reading, not very exciting, I’m afraid.”

 

    Knowing looks are exchanged.

 

    “Is that why you’re so handsy?” The girl elbows at Crowley-- or at least in his direction.

 

    “I don’t know what you mean.” He quickly stops looking for another prawn to hand-feed to Aziraphale, and presents him with a spoonful instead.

 

    “You are. All class you have been.” One of the boys adds. They may treat Aziraphale with the fond respect they’d give a beloved favorite professor, but over the weeks, they’ve decided that Crowley can be treated as a peer, and the fancy car and the flashy job don’t seem to make a lick of difference. Whatever they estimate the age difference to be, it’s not enough for him to be Mister Crowley and it’s not enough to save him the vicious teasing they’d give any fellow young person they suspect of having a sex life.

 

    “We’re not handsy.” Aziraphale blushes all over again.

 

    The smaller of the two boys locks eyes with Crowley and mouths ‘get it, Tony’, with a little nod.

 

    “You’re all terrible.” Crowley says.

 

    “We’re the best people in the village.”

 

    Aziraphale laughs in spite of himself. “Bless, if I’d had that confidence at your age…”

 

    “Thirty eight hundred years BC.” Crowley says under his breath.

 

    Aziraphale smirks over at him, where he’d expected him to chide. “I’ll have you know thirty eight hundred was a very good year.”

 

    “Lot of handsome men around in thirty eight hundred BC?”

 

    “Oh, maybe one.”

 

    “Sure, I know your type.” Crowley leans in. “Bet you were chasing after the bad boys. Boy.”

 

    “My dear, _he_ was chasing after _me_.”

 

    A grin spreads across his face, slow, as he takes in the _look_ Aziraphale gives him. _Teasing_. He thinks he could get used to being teased.

 

    “That wouldn’t surprise me at all.” He plucks another prawn, from the bowl of the spoon, and holds it out. Aziraphale leans in to take it from him, very delicately, and his eyes sparkle.

 

    Oh yes. Crowley could get used to being teased.


	12. Chapter 12

    It’s the first real stormy day, not merely blustery but full of fury, and Crowley is spending it in his greenhouse, wrapped in a light afghan to watch the rain lash at the panes of glass, the rolling dark clouds that keep the afternoon sun from him… the occasional distant flashes of lightning. It’s wonderful getting to watch it all from the comfort and safety of his chair, cozy.

 

    It would be nicer, he thinks, with Aziraphale. With a cup of tea or perhaps a glass of wine, the both of them watching nature tear across the skies in a thunderous riot…

 

    Aziraphale… he’d like being cozy together. He might read aloud between the bursts of thunder, over the sound of the rain hitting the glass, safe in the still of the greenhouse. They could cuddle up to each other…

 

    He closes his eyes and takes a long moment first to think… would this be the perfect moment to kiss him, really kiss him, for the first time? Standing in the center of the greenhouse, the air pleasant and still while a storm rages all around them, wouldn’t that be the perfect time to take Aziraphale gently in his arms, to lean in slow, to let their lips touch and feel Aziraphale respond? They’ve been so close. They’ve waited so long. Isn’t it time? And isn’t this majestic moment in this perfect place the right backdrop for something so momentous and so special? What could be more perfectly _right_ than a beautiful garden safe in the middle of a storm? A place that’s only theirs, warm and dry when the world is cold and wet… a haven, the way Aziraphale has always been a haven to him.

 

    He heads to the library, plan set. He’s going to bring Aziraphale back to the greenhouse, and he’s going to tell him. He’s going to tell him everything he means to him, and he’s going to take him in his arms and kiss him, with the wild rains and rolling thunder all around, and the lush brilliant _life_ of the greenhouse.

 

    Maybe a little miracle to get the victrola playing at the appropriate moment, but either way… either way, he has a plan now.

 

    Aziraphale, however, is not _in_ his library. Aziraphale is out on the veranda, Crowley can hear his voice, but why on _earth_ would he want to experience the storm out where he can feel the cold, where the rain will blow right through the screening?

 

    “Aziraphale?” He knocks, and then winces at himself. Why would he knock on the door to the _outside_?

 

    “Oh! Crowley! Could you get the door for me, there’s a dear!” Aziraphale calls back to him, and so Crowley very cautiously does, only to see Aziraphale, his wings out to block any weather from blowing in with him, and something bundled in a towel in his arms.

 

    He slides in quickly and Crowley shuts the door, finding Aziraphale perfectly dry and feeling rather unsurprised. Of course he’d use a miracle to keep the wet away from his books…

 

    “What have you got there?” Crowley asks. The bundle mews rather pathetically, as if in answer. “Oh no.”

 

    “When the weather clears up, we can go into the veterinary office in town and see if anyone’s missing her. The screen came up a bit and she got in to hide from the storm.”

 

    “I did not sign on for pets.”

 

    “Crowley, look at her.” Aziraphale pouts, tugging back one corner of the towel. A brown tabby cat peers out. “Doesn’t she have the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen on a cat?”

 

    “She has perfectly normal eyes for a cat.” He frowns. They’re only yellow. Cat-ish. Mildly distrustful of the demon they are fixed on.

 

    “She’s _beautiful_.” Aziraphale says, as if to reassure the animal. “I promise when the weather blows over, we’ll look for her family, and I’ll keep her in my bedroom until then, if she bothers you, but… well-- why don’t you want any animals?”

 

    “Because animals don’t _like_ me. Once their brains are bigger than a peanut, they figure out the whole demon thing and they… Look, she doesn’t like me already, I can tell.”

 

    “Oh, don’t be silly, she’s only afraid and lost. She won’t bother you at all, she’ll want to just hide out where it’s safe and cozy. Anyway, you said you didn’t want any animals, even birds and snakes, and none of those noticed you were a demon at all, in the pet shop. You’re not really _jealous_.”

 

    “I am a bit! We’re supposed to be honeymooning and you’re just going to pay attention to the blessed cat!”

 

    He realizes only when he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face that he’s skipped straight to talking honeymoon without ever actually getting to saying any of the rest out loud, and it’s not as though his feelings are any surprise, but there is an order to things.

 

    “Are we?” He asks, breathless.

 

    “Well… Well, yeah! Starting tonight! I was coming here to-- I had it all planned out! Was going to take you out to the greenhouse and put music on if we could hear it over the storm and… _you_ know. I was going to tell you tonight.”

 

    “You could still tell me.”

 

    “You’re still holding the cat.”

 

    “I’ll go and get her seen to, yes-- poor thing, she’ll want to be warm, and then I’ll make sure she’s fed and has water if she likes… Well-- But then… will you take me out to the greenhouse then?”

 

    Crowley’s expression softens. He touches Aziraphale’s cheek briefly. “Of course.”

 

    “I’d very much like to hear what you wanted to tell me.”

 

    “Go and get the cat stowed and meet me there, I’ll… I’ll see if it’ll be any good at all trying to play music.”

 

    Aziraphale nods. He takes the cat up to his room-- he’d thought she might hide there while he spent the night in the library, but now it occurs to him he might instead spend it in Crowley’s bed… perhaps just the way they have done before, perhaps with soft kisses, with their arms about each other, but… perhaps not.

 

    She’s a handsome tabby, a good size. She must have been eating somewhere, not long ago. A shame not to be able to keep her… but someone must miss her. He sets her on the bed and she curls up tight on one pillow, watching him. He miracles a pan with some sand into one corner, and then goes back downstairs to get a dish of water for her, and to chop up a piece of fish from the fridge. He sets both dishes at the opposite corner from the litter tray. She’s moved to hide underneath the bed, when he returns, but he can see her eyes peering out, she’s not back in the far corner.

 

    “There you go, my fine little lady.” He says gently. “I’ll leave you to it, you’ll be safe in here until I come and check on you again.”

 

    She meows, once, and then he leaves her be, to explore the safe and cozy confines of the room and to investigate her supper.

 

    Out in the greenhouse, the music is barely audible over the rain hitting the glass, Crowley swaying to it, a glass of wine in each hand.

 

    “My dear.” He moves to join him, smile growing as Crowley turns, holding a glass out to him. “My, you can really see the storm here… and yet you can barely feel any chill, can you?”

 

    “Not hardly. Sure it was much colder out on the veranda.”

 

    “Oh, yes. Yes, awful chill out there. Poor little thing, but don’t worry, she’s shut up in my room with everything she needs and I think she’ll be happier being alone until she’s settled… Er, that is to say… I’m yours for the night. It’s funny, I was-- I was going to tell you, this weekend.”

 

    “This weekend?”

 

    Aziraphale nods. “I’ve an auction going on a first edition right now. And I thought… I would ask you to drive me up to London, and I’d suggest that you let me buy you dinner, anywhere you like… and then I thought-- well, weather permitting, this time of year, and maybe I would lend you my coat, but I thought I might tell you… under the moon, I’d hoped. Or-- well. I thought I would tell you then.”

 

    He takes a sip of wine, watches as Crowley does the same. They both set their glasses down on the little glass-topped table, Crowley extending a hand.

 

    “We could still go out to dinner.” He draws Aziraphale close, hand moving to his hip. They aren’t much better at dancing than they had been that first time, but neither seems to notice.

 

    “Yes. We could.”

 

    “Aziraphale… I want you to know… this is how you make me feel. You make me feel warm enough, and still enough, and safe enough. When the world’s howling, you… you let me breathe. And you make me braver, and better.” He leans their heads together. “And I love you. That’s all, really, isn’t it? That I love you, that I’m in love with you. I have been, for a very long time. I’ve… For a long time. And ever since you gave me that book, it’s always the one I travel with.”

 

    “Sentimental serpent.” Aziraphale nuzzles at his cheek with a sigh. “I’ve loved you as well… If I make you braver, you make me bolder. And better. You… you know, my dear, that I didn’t want to save the world for sushi, I hope.”

 

    “Aziraphale…”

 

    “I wanted to be together.” He whispers. “I wanted to be together. I wanted to be with you. And then… when it was all over, I was so afraid to tell you still, and I thought… I could never be without you. And I wanted to be away from it all with only you.”

 

    “I hoped. When you asked me to come with you, I hoped. If I ever lost you, angel… it wouldn’t be worth winning any war. And you asked me and I wondered, and I hoped, and…”

 

    “I was still figuring us out. I mean… of course I always did love you. Not what it meant, but… love, I always did.”

 

    “I didn’t always know what it all meant, either. Only… only when I saw you outside Eden, I wanted to know you. And it was… exciting, whenever you bent the rules a little, even if you always tried to say it was part of some great plan when you did it. It took time to figure out what you were to me.”

 

    “Yes. A lot of time, for me, but… I thought it was exciting, too, when you-- when you came up to talk to me, and I wasn’t sure if I ought-- only you were… you didn’t seem so bad to me.”

 

    “I was very bad. I was the architect of original sin.” Crowley grins, playfully nipping in Aziraphale’s direction. “You like the bad boys, that’s what it was. And the bad boys like you… well, and who wouldn’t?”

 

    “I like you. _Bad boy_.” Aziraphale grins. “Why don’t you do something bad to me?”

 

    Crowley gulps. In all the things he had prepared himself for, since Aziraphale first suggested to him that he might be capable of teasing, this is quite beyond what he’d been ready to hear.

 

    “Oh, I can be bad for you.” He promises, voice a little shaky. Hand a little shaky, as it releases Aziraphale’s and moves to his cheek, to tilt him into a kiss. He runs his tongue along Aziraphale’s lower lip, and he doesn’t think anything’s ever matched the thrill of feeling Aziraphale’s mouth open to him. He takes that lip between his teeth, tugging gently, sucking at it before releasing, before letting his tongue take the shape it wants to, and letting the too-long length of it relax, comfortably snaking into Aziraphale’s mouth, forked ends tickling at the palate.

 

    He sucks at his top lip a moment as well, before withdrawing, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

 

    “Oh…” Aziraphale smiles at him, sudden and dizzy, reaching up to cup his face as well, in one soft palm.

 

    “Bad enough for you?” Crowley asks, husky.

 

    “Very, very good, I’m afraid. My dear, your-- your eyes…”

 

    “What about them?”

 

    “I’ve never seen them so _round_.”

 

    “Oh. Are they? That’s… er-- I don’t know, really.”

 

    “Well… it seems flattering, I think. You look very _intent_.”

 

    “Intent’s a good word for it.” He nods, reeling Aziraphale in closer by the hips. “I’m very intent on you.”

 

    “Oh, good.” Aziraphale sighs, and his arms wind about Crowley’s neck.

 

    “Stay with me tonight, and I promise I’ll do all the bad-good things to you you like.”

 

    “Early to think about that, isn’t it? I’ve not made dinner yet.”

 

    “We don’t really need dinner, do we?” Crowley nuzzles his way towards an eminently nippable ear. “Rather get my mouth on you.”

 

    “You may not, but I’ve gotten rather accustomed to having something to keep up my strength. But… perhaps we might take something light up to bed and share it there?”

 

    “Well, far be it from me to deny you what you want… especially if you think you’ll need to keep your strength up. And if you’d like me to feed you.”

 

    “I would rather like that.” Aziraphale admits, melting under Crowley’s attentions. “Just finger foods, then. And I can check in on our visitor when I’m getting my pyjamas--”

 

    “Surely you won’t need those!”

 

    He leans back, eyes wide. “Oh. I-- I won’t?”

 

    “Well-- I mean, the bed will be warm enough. Put the extra duvet on for tonight, and… I mean, I’d imagined we wouldn’t need-- Hadn’t you imagined?” Crowley asks, nervous.

 

    “I hadn’t really thought about it. I’ve never…”

 

    “I’ve never shared a bed with anyone who wasn’t you.” He nods. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t like. But I still want to feel you. Wrap myself around you, and all that warm skin…”

 

    Aziraphale nods in return, his own smile nervous, a little. “I like how that sounds, I do. I want-- certain things.”

 

    “We’ve got time to explore them.” Crowley promises. With a wave of the hand, he stops the victrola. “I’ll take the wine up and make things all nice for you… will you join me with anything you’d like me to feed you? We’ll have our supper a bit early.”

 

    Aziraphale nods. He doesn’t think it’s _too_ early-- the idea of lounging in bed and letting Crowley feed him is too attractive to put on hold just because he might have normally taken time cooking a hot meal.

 

    It’s nice being able to. If he cooks most nights, they can still go out now and then, and at the end of the week they can heat up all the little tiny bits of leftovers that Crowley’s refrigerator has kept perfectly preserved, and that tends to be Crowley’s favorite night, all the different tastes of this and that, the variety-- but all of it homemade. All of it an expression of love. And now and then, Crowley tells him to put his feet up with his book, and he makes pasta, or he fixes sandwiches, or he makes fried rice with whatever vegetables they have, with a bit of leftover bacon sometimes.

 

    Aziraphale hums to himself and puts together a tray. A little bit of crudite, cucumber sandwiches cut small, a sliced apple, the stuffed dates they’d bought at the nice little specialty market, in one of the nearer towns… A special occasion, they’d said, and they hadn’t really decided upon what that occasion might be. Tonight-- tonight is just the time. To lick the stickiness from Crowley’s fingers, to indulge in the nostalgia… when had they last shared a plate of stuffed dates? He can remember the moment, can remember Crowley pushing most of them on him, encouraging him, not wanting to overeat himself… how much sweeter they’d felt and how much more the weak wine had seemed to go to his head, with Crowley watching him so intently…

 

    Crowley’s bedroom door is open, waiting for him, and he nudges it closed behind him. Not that it matters if the door is closed or open, when they’re alone, the only soul in the house the cat shut in Aziraphale’s room.

 

    Aziraphale’s… old room? Might he move in now? They’ve slept together several times now, they know they’re comfortable that way.

 

    Crowley is lounging in bed-- Anthony Junior lying along the pillows, he notes-- a few extra buttons undone on his shirt, wine waiting on the nightstand.

 

    “You, my dear, make quite the picture.” Aziraphale smiles, moving to join him. He steps out of his slippers and makes himself comfortable.

 

    “And you.” Crowley looks over him in open admiration. Not overly sexual, but there’s heat in it, there’s promise.

 

    “Capsicum?” Aziraphale offers, starting with the crudite. Light enough that Crowley would be free to enjoy it without feeling weighed down by his meal, not to mention the variety. “Of course it will be better when you start your vegetable garden… oh, it’ll be so nice when it’s fresh from just outside. But, the produce from the shop is fine for now.”

 

    “I know I could just do some things in the greenhouse year ‘round, but it’s not the same, is it?” Crowley leans in and lets Aziraphale feed him, savoring the bite. The crunch, the sweetness, the mild bit of spice. The cool, creamy dip. “I like the thought of it changing with the seasons.”

 

    “Yes. Like it used to be… well. Nicer than it used to be. But it feels right, to have changes.”

 

    Crowley picks out a carrot stick to feed Aziraphale in return. “I’ll have to deal with pests, of course… and I’ll have to work out something for fertilizer. Compost, I suppose, could get a compost drum. Peels and eggshells and coffee grounds…”

 

    “Mm-- I’m sure whatever you do will be fine. And whatever you need me to do.”

 

    “Oh, you’ll only be merciful to the pests if I ask you to help with that… but if you just remember to compost the compostables once I get set up for it, that’s all I can ask.”

 

    “Happy to.”

 

    They get through the crudite, playfully licking at each other’s fingers even when there aren’t dabs of dip to clean up after. Crowley accepts a bite of cucumber sandwich, but feeds most of them to Aziraphale, growing bolder when it comes to letting his fingers linger on Aziraphale’s lips-- or push past them.

 

    There’s a thrill to that. To the warmth and the softness and the _wet_ of his mouth. To the thought of any part of himself inside that mouth. His tongue, his fingers… other things yet to explore. And just to know that Aziraphale accepts this care from him and trusts him to give it. Trusts him to give only good things, pleasing things. Trusts that pleasure from a demon isn’t dangerous when the demon is him.

 

    There’s a thrill at Aziraphale’s end as well, in the way Crowley watches him so intently. The way he insists on another bite for him, and another, the way he sighs when Aziraphale hums in pleasure at the taste of something new, the way he gives his fingers to be licked, and-- in a rather bold moment-- sucked on.

 

    They haven’t even gotten to the dates yet.

 

    He lets Crowley feed him apple slices first, basking in the heated look that comes with, the intensity of it growing. It’s the juice from the apple that he sucks from his fingers, a little more than strictly necessary. Crowley again allows himself to be fed a little, and he nips gently at the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb, swipes over it with his tongue.

 

    “Could grow you these, too.” He says, feeding the last slice to Aziraphale. “Think of it, could cut slices and feed them to you right out under the tree, you leaned in my lap with your book, me just relaxing…”

 

    “Is that what you’d like, dear? An apple tree?”

 

    “I would.”

 

    “I’ll get it for you.” Aziraphale promises. “We’ll sit under it sometimes, when it’s big and strong enough to lean against, and enjoy the sun slanting through the leaves.”

 

    “A couple shade trees down one end of the property, you know… we can read under those together, come spring. Just until the apple tree feels settled in and ready. Might take a little time.”

 

    “We’ll pick a nice strong one at the nursery. Certainly won’t take as long as trying to start from scratch.”

 

    “We could.” Crowley laughs and kisses him. “We could, oh, we could. We could plant trees and watch them grow, we’ll be here long enough. This land is ours, we could have as many as we like!”

 

    “We could.” Aziraphale throws his arms around him, mindful of the tray with the dates even as he kisses back, as he nuzzles at him after. “Year after year… we can make whatever we like of it.”

 

    “And we will. Aziraphale… I want to make you happy.”

 

    “My dear, you do.”

 

    “Happier, then. I want to give you a paradise. I want to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

 

    “You _do_. This place is everything I’ve ever wanted, as long as I have you to share it with. We have a sea view, I have my library, a place in your beautiful greenhouse… a beautiful kitchen, a nice shower, half of your bed… a place to call _home_. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed to have this life with you.”

 

    “Aziraphale… if that bloody cat hasn’t got a home, then-- I mean-- well, it would keep the pests out! Not slugs and such, but mice, anyway. So-- so we may as well keep it.”

 

    “Oh, Crowley!” He flings himself back into a very warm kiss, and then several more. “Oh, do you mean it?”

 

    “Yeah. If it means that much to you.”

 

    “Oh, darling! You really are the sweetest-- er, that is--” He draws back, biting his lip, but Crowley makes no protest. “The _sweetest_ old thing. Haven’t you always been, though? Haven’t you always been sweet to me?”

 

    “From time to time.” He allows. “Most times… Just for you, mind, not in any kind of general sense.”

 

    “Oh, if you say so.” Aziraphale’s eyes dance at that, he runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “If she hasn’t got a home, of course, but-- oh, I think she’ll like it here with us if she hasn’t! She will warm up to you, you know.”

 

    “Care more about having you warmed up to me.”

 

    “You know, when it’s the dead of winter, you’ll be glad to have a warm cat sleeping on your feet.”

 

    “You’re going to let her in our bedroom?” He grouses-- though it does not escape Aziraphale’s notice that he’d switched from ‘it’ to ‘her’.

 

    “When it’s cold. You’ll appreciate that extra warmth.”

 

    “What about our private time?” Crowley pushes his face into Aziraphale’s neck.

 

    “Oh-- well-- I’m sure we’ll still get that. We can open the door after.” Aziraphale soothes, picking up a date. “Open?”

 

    Crowley pulls back and does just that, happily accepting the treat-- and capturing Aziraphale’s hand to give his fingers a thorough licking.

 

    “Mm, memories, hm?” He offers one in return. “I used to buy you stuffed dates… you were always so fond of them.”

 

    “Your favorites had the nuts, didn’t they? If we can’t find any that do, we might add our own next time.” Aziraphale smiles. The layered sweetness of the meat of the date and then the honey stirred into the soft cheese-- and the tartness of the cheese, the slight hint of salt. The chew and then the creaminess.

 

    He likes it as it is, but they could make their own. A little rosewater in the cheese and then crushed pistachios over the top, it would be like Crowley always preferred, if he was going to nibble… the floral note and the added texture of the crunch… They could make their own easily, now that they do proper cooking.

 

    “I always wanted to do this.” Crowley admits, feeding him a second, thumb brushing gently across his lip. Aziraphale hums, holding his hand in place, sucking at it. “Oh, should have started centuries ago… if that’s how you react.”

 

    He chuckles warmly.

 

    One by one-- and two by two, on just a couple occasions-- the dates disappear, with rather more licking and sucking than necessary. Finally, Crowley sets the empty tray down on the floor, and rolls back over to take Aziraphale in his arms.

 

    “I’ve waited so long… longer than I think I’ve known. Aziraphale… I love you. And I _want_ you. Tell me what you want.”

 

    “Oh-- er… I’ve never…” Aziraphale gnaws at his lip, but makes himself comfortable in Crowley’s arms just the same. “I want to please you. I’m not sure if I really want to… do the whole thing, for me. Genitals and all. But I do want to please you!”

 

    “Kinky.” Crowley laughs, and kisses his neck. “You can take time to decide. Can I undress you?”

 

    “Yes.” Aziraphale’s answer is immediate. Crowley begins undoing buttons, begins kissing his throat, nipping gently at the soft skin, soft flesh.

 

    So much soft skin and soft flesh to explore, when he finally gets him naked to the waist, and Aziraphale enjoys it as much as Crowley does. Even being undecided about sex and making an effort, he revels in the attention, in the gentle kisses, in the wet heat sucking little marks to the surface, in the nip of teeth or the teasing of a forked tongue. There’s so much to experience, and he wouldn’t need more than this to be happy, but he doesn’t need less, either. He squirms and sighs, he pets at Crowley’s hair. He drinks in the palpable sense of love he feels coming from his own beloved demon… his own darling serpent.

 

    “Oh, my love…” He cups Crowley’s cheek, easing him back from a thorough nibbling exploration of belly. “And may I?”

 

    Crowley nods, sitting up, scooting in. He lets Aziraphale strip away his shirt, and enjoys the nuzzling that follows, the soft impassioned sounds as Aziraphale enjoys the freedom to touch at long last.

 

    Trousers follow, underthings vanish.

 

    “Still thinking.” Aziraphale apologizes, but Crowley gently pushes him to lie back.

 

    “Let me kiss you anyway.” He says, and his pupils are indeed very round with intent once more.

 

    “Of course.” He nods, and he expects lips against his, not…

 

    Not the way Crowley settles between his legs, and kisses and nips at his thighs, only to come to the smooth expanse where he might have made an effort and didn’t, where he might yet. Crowley lavishes the skin there with kisses just the same as he had everywhere else. It may not be sex, but Aziraphale _likes_ it. To be the center of Crowley’s attention, to have his body loved and wanted as it is, whether he makes the effort to be sexual or not, it feels wonderful in a way beyond the mere physical.

 

    Crowley’s attention returns down to his thighs, wet and eager, there’s a little growl in the back of his throat as he lavishes attention there that has Aziraphale feeling flushed and weak.

 

    “Tell me what I can do for you.” He says, squeezing Crowley’s shoulder.

 

    “Let me have them…” Crowley sighs, words muffled against him. He nips gently at him again, his tongue snakes down along one. “Let me _fuck_ you, between them… you don’t have to do a thing, love, you don’t have to feel anything you don’t like, but oh, I want these…”

 

    He squeezes them both, digs in, nuzzles and kisses some more, noisy kisses, filled with abandon, and Aziraphale nods, feels utterly helpless to resist.

 

    It’s not as if there’s anything objectionable, really. He’d have given Crowley his mouth, just as easily as he might have agreed for a lazy rut against each other. Anything he asked, provided he could take his own pleasure at his own pace. But the idea of being a source of pleasure? That sends ripples of warmth down his spine, sweetness…

 

    “That’s my angel…” Crowley sighs. “So good to me. You stop me if you don’t like it, but-- but I just want us to be _close_ , I know you want it, too.”

 

    “I do.” He nods. There’s something cool and slick, and then there’s the firm heat of Crowley pressing between his thighs, and he squeezes tight around him, holds tight to him.

 

    Crowley is slow, steady, kissing Aziraphale deeply, rolling his hips. He keeps one hand in Aziraphale’s hair, weight balanced on his forearm, and his other hand roams, tender everywhere it lands.

 

    “Aziraphale… I love you…” He moans, between fervent kisses that move between Aziraphale’s mouth and his throat. “I love you so much, so much it hurts me sometimes, and-- and then-- with you-- it’s the only thing that couldn’t hurt, do you know?”

 

    It’s funny, Aziraphale thinks distantly, that for so long he should have considered it an _effort_. In the moment that it happens, it seems anything but.

 

    “I know, dearheart, _Crowley_.” He promises. “I love you so, I love you so…”

 

    “Oh-- is this--?” Crowley pauses, considerate of the sudden change.

 

    “Yes, _please_.”

 

    Crowley kisses him again. He’s trapped between the press of their bodies, feeling Crowley move against him, feeling his cock hard, feeling his touch and his kiss, his shaky breath hot against wet skin, feeling his _love_.

 

    It really doesn’t take much. It’s a wonderful feeling when it happens.

 

    “Good?” Crowley pants against him.

 

    “ _Wonderful_. For you?”

 

    “ _Oh yeah_.”

 

    The mess is easily vanished, and then…

 

    Well.

 

    Aziraphale supposes he doesn’t have to be in any hurry to check on the cat, when it feels so right to lie here beneath Crowley. Only when Crowley begins to shiver, in need of being under the covers, does he even consider moving.


End file.
